


Portrait of a Wolf

by trilliath



Series: Portrait of a Wolf [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - Grown ups, Artist!Derek, Big City, Confident Stiles, M/M, PhotoJournalist!Stiles, Sassy Lydia, Seductive Erica, Shy Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/pseuds/trilliath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a big-city AU, Derek's a reclusive painter known for his wolf and nature-themed artwork. Stiles is a photographer and journalist who works for a magazine that is doing a featured article on up-and-comer Derek. Things don't get off to the best start, but Stiles is determined to capture the man behind the artwork. Of course, he's going to get more than he bargained for.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light Sources

Stiles isn't nervous, though to an outsider he might look it. His fingers beat out a complex tattoo on the black camera bag slung over his shoulder, and his foot taps in time to an entirely different beat. His eyes track all around the space, a dark and aged hallway that formed above the narrow stairwell that came up from between the small businesses below. It serviced one lone door, which presumably meant the loft was a big one. Like really big.  
He becomes impatient after an eternity of ten seconds and snaps the clasp on his bag almost on reflex. Taking up photography had been a wonderful relief of his hyperactive tendencies. Instead of annoying the shit out of everyone around him with his chatter he could annoy the shit out of them by taking photos of everything instead. At least the latter just made him eclectic and artistic instead of a giant spaz. 

He snaps a couple quick shots of the morose hallway, wondering if it would be any indication of the man he was here to interview, or if it was merely one of those things you couldn't control about how landlords did things. Though he was fairly certain the lack of emergency lighting wasn't up to code.

He perks up when he hears footsteps pacing closer behind the door and on impulse, swings his camera towards the door as it opens, snapping a shot of the door-opener.  
"Whoa," he mutters, staring down at the LCD screen on the back of his camera. "You seriously match the hallway," he says, turning a grin up to the man standing in front of him.  
And boy, talk about… He's wearing a dingy thermal, stained with a few smears of paint, sleeves pushed up around his elbows. The dark jeans over bare feet keep with the grungy artist look but, wow, the face with the sharp cheekbones and starkly contrasting hair. Plus the way everything fits him perfectly and boy what a form to be fitted to.  
Stiles swings his camera up again for another snap of the belligerent look on a chiseled face.

"What?" the man said, voice something between a snarl and a query.

"Oh, right. You _are_ Derek Hale, right? Not his friend / boyfriend / brother," he paused, pondering other options, "Houskeeper?"

The man is looking at him like most people did when they first met him. Or even after they'd known him for years. Namely, like he was crazy. He grins, pinning his mouth shut long enough to get a reply. He does have a job to do after all. He twitches up expectant eyebrows.

He sees those startlingly green eyes flick down to his camera and then the man steps back, letting the heavy door swing wider as he gestures with his chin and _ohmygod_ what a jawline. Stiles snaps another photo as he catches first sight of the vast loft space. He knew well enough that his impulse photos were rarely the sort that actually made it into the article but he liked taking them anyway. You never knew what you might catch by being quick and all _carpe diem_ and what have you.

After slinging his camera's strap around his wrist for safekeeping and dragging the case with his gear forward, he paces inside the loft. To his surprise, it is practically unmodified. Pretty rare for this part of town. Most of the lofts here had been altered beyond recognition into posh living spaces with sky high rents. This place was just a bare concrete room with a few cabinets and a good half-dozen easels strewn across the space. Though the rent was probably still high. Like really high.

"Jesus, this is gorgeous," he says, abandoning his gear and striding past the artist into the space, the soft soles of his shoes still echoing in a room that had no carpets and no walls to dampen the sound. "Like, pauper grunge meets neatfreak with good taste," he mutters as he lines up a shot of the corner near the curtained-off section, which is presumably a bathroom, where a simple futon-style bed and a chest of drawers sits against one wall. A small desk is nearby with a laptop and a few neatly-organized papers. The only thing that saves it from being pathetic is the huge canvas hanging over the bed.

"Oh my god, this is so cool," Stiles says, starting to walk further into the loft. But then he remembers to act like a professional and turns abruptly.

"Woah," he blurts, stumbling back as he nearly comes into contact with that paint-stained thermal. He clutches his camera to his chest as broad hands dart up on either side of him, not touching but there in case he does stumble. Which is good, since his habit is actually to crumble backwards when surprised like this. Something to do with the vagus (or was it vegas? Like it partied too hard?) nerve. The man, who is presumably Derek Hale, is looking at him with an expression that could most accurately be described as "flabbergasted". No big. He was used to it.

"Uh, heh heh. Hi. Bare feet. Right. Sorry about that, got carried away. _Artists_ ," he says, rolling his eyes in self-deprecating humor and a conspiratorial elbow nudge in the direction of some seriously taut abs. 

Ahem. _Professional_ he reminds himself, straightening up.

"Hey, so. I'm Stiles Stilinski," he continues, shaking his hand free from the neck-strap wrapped around his wrist and shoving it forward to offer to the silent man. 

After a moment's hesitation, a broad, callused hand meets his more wiry one, curving over it in a firm grip as they exchanged a handshake.

"Derek Hale," comes a low, rough-edged voice that has Stiles's eyebrows twitching skyward and his lips parting in appreciation.

"Oh, and please, for the love of donkey-kong, call me Stiles and not ever Mr. Stilinski because that's the Sheriff."

"The Sheriff," Derek says flatly.

At Derek's blank look Stiles rolls his eyes, "My dad is the Sheriff. Back in… okay nevermind that is _completely_ irrelevant," he says, laughing as he turns to look back at the space. 

"But seriously, this place is amazing," he adds, pacing towards the huge arrays of factory windows, some of which were covered with long spans of heavy drapes. Stiles snaps a couple photos of the room, walking around, getting a feel for the light. He turns around at one point to see Derek right where he'd left him, standing like he was tensed to run or move or something. Dramatic, he thought, bringing the camera up for another snap of the very man in question.

"Ok wow, make my job easy why don't you," he says, mouth hanging ajar as he looks at the image on the camera. He shortens the shutter-speed and f-stop with a quick flick of a button and brings the lens back up for a more precise shot. Derek's still standing where he'd left him, a guarded look on his face. 

"Oooh," Stiles coos over the image as it pops up on the screen. 

"I swear, artists are the best. Well except for the whole 'doctors make the worst patients' thing. So sometimes they're the worst. But you're one of the good ones. Because, you know, you get drama. And composition. And lighting. Right. You know. Art."

"What?"

Stiles pauses, glancing up at the man standing awkwardly in the middle of his own studio. His voice is sounding more frustrated than inquisitive and Stiles shrugs through a wince. Part of his job was to set the subject at ease. To get to know them and capture the best side of them possible. And clearly he was not at ease.

"Sorry. Sorry, I'm getting carried away again." 

He strides back across the room, coming to stand in front of the artist.

"I didn't even ask if you were ready to get started."

Derek shrugged, glancing down at a paint-smeared hand. His left hand. "Well-,"

"Ooh are you a leftie?" Stiles asks, snapping a shot of the indicated hand. 

"Yes." Derek shifts, rubbing his fingers across his shirt. Stiles photographs that too.

"Sorry, you were saying?" Stiles prompts when he remains silent after that short confirmation.

"I was painting," he says quietly.

"Oh, oh god sorry. Did I get the time wrong?" Stiles asks, looking down automatically at his wrist - which he'd adorned with a leather bracelet today instead of his watch. He _had_ made an attempt to try and look more fashionable lately, and since his customary plastic watch doesn't exactly scream high-end magazine photographer, it's leather bracelet instead. Figures. But he really likes the bracelet. Allison (and Scott) had given it to him when he'd seen them for christmas last year back home for the holidays.

Derek glances at his wrist reflexively too, but it's bare, which makes total sense for a painter.  
"No, I...,"

"Right." But Stiles, already on course, fumbles anyway for his phone in his pocket till he can see the time. Just to confirm he's not a total fuck-up. Or something. There's an awkward silence for a moment.

"Artists," Derek offers, the shy edge of a smile catching at his mouth before slipping away. 

Stile beams at him and laughs. "Right?" 

Equilibrium restored! "So, what are you painting?" Stiles asks, surging away again towards the easels. He makes a beeline for the most promising looking one, namely the one that isn't covered by a sheet.

Just as he is nearing, however, he hears swift footfalls behind him. He isn't past picking up his pace to catch a glimpse of the large canvas before Derek cuts in front of him, snapping the edge of the sheet over the canvas and pinning it carefully down to shield the wet paint. But Stiles doesn't get a good look. 

"It's not ready," Derek says curtly over his shoulder, and then promptly looks embarrassed at his reaction.

"Okay," Stiles says cheerfully, though he has to admit he's a tiny bit disappointed.

Derek looks nonplussed again at his lack of reactance and Stiles smirks. 

"Sorry for interrupting though. Seriously. Did you need to finish something? I know I hate it when I'm interrupted right in the middle because like, you just want to finish it and. So, I can start getting set up, or..."

"No," Derek says flatly. Then grimaces, "I mean, I'm done for now."

Stiles grins at him and then turns, glancing around the room. "Okay, well, I can get some test shots of you before I go full out with the gear. Like. Ok, what's your painting process like? Do you just dive right in or? Hey, maybe you can bust out a fresh canvas. Do you have any? Ooh what's your favorite piece?" Stiles asks, peering over at the tall open-faced cabinets against one wall that have row after row of canvas edges in them. He snaps a few quick test shots, moving closer, finding the light. 

Derek makes his way to the cabinets in question and touches the edge of one of the canvases like he's going to drag one out as requested, but he hesitates. In fact he looks more like he's guarding the racks than anything else.

Stiles takes the opportunity to photograph him again, but with each snap he can see Derek retreating further into his shell. Most of the artists Stiles has worked with would have blossomed under the attention, the chance to pull out a favored canvas or play with a fresh one. Stiles gnaws on his lip as he lets his camera hang down at his hip. Immediately he sees Derek relax slightly without the lens on him.

Aw hell. He's fucking it all up. Some professional he is.

"That's just a thought," Stiles says more calmly, trying to rein himself in and catch Derek's wavelength. "I should have mentioned it ahead of time so you'd have had time to think over what you wanted to show."

"Do you want some coffee?" 

Stiles blinks, mouth hanging open for a second before it twists into a grin. "Yeah, we can jump right to the interview then, if that works for you, and then do the photos after. I mean, it's all whatever works," Stiles says, slipping the lens-cap back on his camera (though not putting it away in his bag. That would just be ridiculous after all).

Derek is looking at him like he's grown an extra head, but Stiles just smiles and swivels on his heel till he sees the kitchen nook in the corner opposite the bed. "Seriously though I would _never_ turn down coffee. I mean, who would turn down coffee? Clearly people who don't like coffee aren't humans. Not that I have anything against non-humans actually. But, you know, _coffee_ , man? "

"Ohh, of course you do," Stiles murmurs and snaps the lens-cap back off his camera in a smooth motion as he plops down on one of the leather bar stools located conveniently against the small island. He stabilizes his elbows on the counter and snaps a shot of the high-end espresso machine taking up more than it's fair share of the limited counter space. 

He twists in a way that should be awkward, and, well, it is but his lanky frame makes it possible and he snags another shot of a flabbergasted Derek Hale, backlit by the light pouring through factory windows. The pillars holding up the high ceiling and the easels interspersed between them are delightfully out of focus with the low F-stop setting.

But Derek has offered coffee and that at least gives him impetus for the next few minutes. He pads over - actually silent with his bare feet - into the kitchen. He opens a cabinet, setting out coffee beans that come in a bag so posh as to look like they come from somewhere that doesn't need to advertise. He tries not to drool. 

Of course, there's more than one drool-worthy thing in front of him. He eyes the firm shapes of the muscles in Derek's back as he begins making the coffee. He'd have to be blind not to appreciate the aesthetics of a well-kept form. He was also sex-positive enough to simply enjoy the view. 

Derek's motions are efficient, but there's a slight hesitancy that has him half-glancing over his shoulder at Stiles every so often. Stiles snags another photo or seven, eventually coming to the (ok, rather obvious) conclusion that Derek doesn't like having people behind him. 

When Derek finally turns, two tiny espresso cups on two perfect little saucers in hand, Stiles makes a hum of appreciation and scrambles to snap another photo before capping the lens and shoving it in his camera bag still slung over his butt. After a moment's hesitation, Derek comes to sit on the other stool next to Stiles, setting one saucer down in front of him. The scent is already permeating the air around the kitchen nook.

"Oh my god," Stiles says, holding the cup in both hands and lifting it to his nose. He takes a short sniff, then another, slower drag over the espresso, eyes fluttering closed. "Oh wow," he adds, eyes flicking open wide to look at the man across from him. Derek just continues staring at him warily, his own cup held somewhat awkwardly in his palm.

Stiles takes his first sip, and makes another appreciative sound, savoring the flavor on his tongue before settling the cup down on the saucer. He reaches back for his camera bag and fishes out his notebook.

"Ok, ok. Interview. So," Stiles begins, squinting at the first question in the book before looking up with his best charming grin. Derek looks at his mouth and then back up to his eyes with an unreadable expression. 

"So Derek, what defines your artistic vision?"

Derek opens his mouth, then shuts it into a thin line of compressed lip. His eyes narrow and then he glares down into his coffee. To Stiles's amazement, the tips of his ears redden. The silence is loud between them.

"Sooo, not the art-school mission-statement sort of artist then? That's cool, me neither. I was a communications major, because, like, half the classes are about talking and I happen to do that a lot so that made it easy. The photography courses were like a bonus so I didn't have to take them for a grade so - woo, non-conformity for the win!" 

Derek is, of course, just staring at him again. Stiles clears his throat awkwardly and looks down at the notepad. This guy is _nothing_ like what he'd expected. And yeah, he'd seen the photos of him in a designer suit at gallery openings when he'd done his research for the article but _wow_ did the real thing blow that out of the water - in a good way. 

But because Derek painted wolves and intense fantasy scenes, and so much of his proceeds went to animal rescues, and because he smiled a painfully-charming million-dollar smile in all the press photos… somehow Stiles and his editor had expected some sort of emotionally effusive guy. Like all spiritual and animal guides and. Well. Everything but tongue-tied and brooding. 

"Argh…," Stiles mutters, flipping quickly through his notepad and all the approved questions listed there that he'd discussed with his editor. He comes to an abrupt realization. "These questions suck."

Stiles gnaws on his lip for a moment, thinking that he was probably the wrong choice for this interview. They tried hard at the magazine to pick the right journalist for the subject because it made for better interviews. And better interviews meant better articles, which meant sales. 

Stiles was great for the crazy ones because he _liked_ crazy. He was good at bringing out the crazy, capturing the eclectic beauty of the subjects that made them what they were. He knew that, because he'd proven it time and again. And he also knew that because he and his editor had gotten it wrong, there was probably no way he was going to make this work. 

But then again...  
 _Artists_.  
He'd seen that flicker of a smile. He'd just started this off all wrong. He'd ruined the tone of the thing but that didn't mean it was unsalvageable. Well. Not in the long-run anyway. That made it like a _challenge_. Stiles _liked_ challenges. And he particularly liked _this_ challenge with his brooding good looks and mysterious character. It was a refreshing change of pace from the attention-grabbing fame-hogs that he dealt with on a regular basis. 

"Listen, I think I've come by at _just_ the wrong moment, interrupting you and everything. And yeah, I could get some answers to a few questions, and take a bunch of standard photos but...," Stiles sighs and sips his espresso again. "Okay this is _really_ good coffee. Like, better-than-Kaylee's-strawberries good. I just needed to point that out. But, point is, I don't want to do a superficial and shitty article on you. I mean. Not that I would do a shitty article on purpose or anything. But I'm just thinking, I've got you all wrong," he says, gesturing broadly at the list of question, "And I’d like to fix that."

Derek is still looking wary, but there's a clear edge of relief there. And he hasn't cut Stiles off, so the photographer smiles broadly.

"Yeah. Because I think your work deserves a good article. So. Here's what I'm thinking. We re-schedule and start with the interview, so I can just get to know you. Somewhere else, somewhere," he glances down at the cup in his hands. "Somewhere with coffee," he says gleefully, and is pleased to see faint hints of the expression echoed on Derek's face. "And preferably with Danishes too, though I _will_ settle for no Danishes if that doesn't work," he says, waggling his eyebrows.

"Steak sandwich," Derek says in the gap as Stiles takes another sip of espresso. "Somewhere with sandwiches."

Stiles grins at him, surprised but pleased. "Right on. Ok," he says, shuffling around in his pack again to find a business card. "Here's my number. And, here, wait," he mutters, snagging the card back and pulling his pen back down from where he'd been tapping it against his shoulder. 

"That's _my_ number. Like, my cell phone." 

Stiles hesitates a second and then tilts his head and offers a smaller more private smile. "You could, you know call me there instead. If you want." 

Derek looks a little surprised at that. Then his face goes completely blank as he takes the card that Stiles slides along the counter. 

"Right. So, thanks for the coffee. And. You know, give me a call."

Stiles isn't sure that his flirting was well received - or noticed. But he grins and starts to make his way back to his gear bag. Of course, he only makes it a pace away before he whirls back and snags the little espresso cup and tips back the last sip. 

"Like I said. Better than deep fried twinkies good. Actually you're right," he says at Derek's skeptical face. "Those are disgusting. But this is good."

And with that, he grins, grabs his bag and is out the door with a jaunty wave over his shoulder.


	2. Oils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh I know it's a bit of a slow start with this chapter, but I think the pace will pick up soon because it's basically impossible for me to be content to write a story that doesn't have any plot twists.  
> Thanks so much for all the lovely comments on the first chapter! I just hope I can live up to them. <3

He hates the city. There are too many smells, and so few of them are the sorts of smells he wants. Too many people, too many nonverbal signals to watch for in different and arbitrary social languages. Not like home, not like where everyone knew the rules, knew the signals to send and to watch for. But home isn't there anymore, and art requires an audience to be worth anything. 

And even if his feet feel strange to be in his shoes again, and even if it is strange being out in public in the middle of the day instead of the tail ends where it is quiet and dusky, he is… looking forward to it. To him.  
 _Stiles_. A lanky tangle of energy and lips and eyes that remind him of the eyes of the wild animals with whom he was forever entranced. 

He'd turned the card over in his fingers a long time after their first meeting, gazing at the sprawling scrawl of the handwritten number below the neatly printed office number for Stiles Stilinski at the magazine.

He'd almost memorized the number just by staring at it for so long. He hadn't needed to check the card again when he made the call, though he'd pretended he had a day and a half later when he made the call in the early morning light over his espresso. 

"Stiles Stilinski Speaking" his voice had said cheerily after the second ring.

"Ah. Hi...,"

"Derek? Oh good, I'm so glad you called," Stiles had said, voice softening slightly as he realized the caller was a known-entity. Derek, however, had been more than a little nonplussed that Stiles had recognized his voice from two monosyllabic words. Fortunately, Derek being nonplussed seemed to have little impact on Stiles's ability to speak.

"I did some checking," Stiles had continued. "I managed to find a place that does coffee, steak sandwiches AND Danishes. At the same time. Which isn't actually that easy, because by the time they bring out the sandwich menu, a lot of places are taking the breakfast sweets _off_ the menu. At least the ones that have good coffee. Because it's always the small places that have the good coffee so they're the ones usually tight with their menu options. And-,"  
Stiles had clamped his mouth shut then with a snap of teeth and then an awkward clearing of the throat.

"Great," Derek had replied since he'd felt the need to say something. Anything. Though he'd wondered idly if there was a limit to how much the guy could talk if he was left to do so un-checked. He'd been amused to hear a faint repetitive tapping sound in the background as well as a slight hitch in Stiles's breath as he choked back whatever words he'd been about to add.

"So I was thinking we could do lunchtime on Monday. Or..." and Stiles's voice had paused and deepened over a faint breathy chuckle. "Or, ah, I'm free today. If you want."

Derek had heard the smile in his voice and felt an answering one tugging at his mouth.  
For all that other people frequently overwhelmed him, Derek knew he wasn't mistaking the nonverbal cues in his voice.  
It was a Saturday. Personal time, not work time. What's more, Stiles preferred that option.  
The silence had stretched a little long as Derek considered, but it hadn't really taken long to decide that he did as well. 

"Today. Today would be... Good," Derek had offered.

"Mm, excellent," Stiles had replied. "do you text? I can text you the place's address."

 

The painting he'd started after they'd hung up had been primal and fast, just like the subject.  
Two wolves, bursting out of the woods and leaping through long grasses. Was it a chase? A game? Whatever it was, by the time he tossed down his brush in the cleaning bin, he was sweating and breathing as hard as if he'd been running the last few hours with them.  
He'd just had to scramble for a quick shower which had only done a marginally satisfactory job of getting the paint off his skin before throwing on some clothes and heading out the door. 

Which is how he finds himself walking up a crowded street filled with people and families out enjoying the cool weather. And how he finds Stiles, standing off the curb with camera in hand, crouching down to catch an image across the street through passing traffic. The way he is smiling purposelessly as he takes the photograph is a sharp contrast to Derek's automatic dour street face. It's enough to soften it.

He looks good, eyes focused on the subject of his photograph, messy hair jutting up in loose spiky directions from his scalp interrupted by the frame of his sunglasses. He's wearing a soft looking green hoodie, unzipped over a navy blue v-neck tee. Color. Derek is far more muted in white tee and black leather jacket over faded old jeans. He snorts at the metaphoric accuracy of their clothing choices. He waits for Stiles to finish his shot. Waits for him to glance around again for his presence.

When Stiles does see him, the reaction is immediate. A broad smile and a camera lens swinging up to capture his image. Stiles laughs at himself and caps the lens, shoving it away in his bag and snapping it shut. "Sorry, couldn't resist," he says, striding over to Derek while he adjusts the black camera bag so that it's slung over his shoulder, strap over a sharp collarbone and pressing against the slim divot between the muscles on his chest. His mouth quirks as he catches his own accidental entendre. He winks at Derek.

"Hey," he says, smiling.

"Hey," Derek replies. He doesn't smile. 

Stiles looks at him assessingly, and Derek returns the look. The photographer waggles his eyebrows after a moment. "Hungry? I'm starving." He turns on his heel, glancing around the street. "Where did it go?" he mutters, then laughs. "I get so distracted taking photos. I wandered off again. You wouldn't believe how often I get lost that way."

Derek snorts. He doesn't think he'd be surprised at all.

"But, you know, that's half the fun. Some of the most amazing places I've been have been found on accident. Especially the food. Though sometimes I think they're like, magic or something, because I can never find my way back to some of them. Like one perfect meal then BAM. Gone. Of course, if that's true, then I really shouldn't eat there. Isn't that what they say? When there's magic involved, don't eat the food?"

Derek grunts. "Only if it's free."

Stiles laughs and wipes his brow theatrically. "Whew, then. That's good." 

But Stiles hadn't wandered far this time. The café is nearby and they enter together, though Stiles takes the lead approaching the host-station while Derek follows close behind him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The place smells good, rich smells of coffee and food cooking in the kitchen. But it's also busy, filled with the chatter of a wide mix of people. He tenses involuntarily when she points to a table near the windows which is surrounded by vociferous patrons. 

"Um… actually, can we sit outside?" Stiles asks, grinning disarmingly at the server. She gnaws on her lip a moment as she leans back to glance through the back windows at the small patio area. The patio is empty, not in use just yet, but that smile Stiles offers seems to do the trick.

"Sure, I think so," she says, then leads them past the crowded room towards the door. 

Stiles, being first out automatically moves towards the far chair, but abruptly he turns and sets a quick but firm hand on Derek's arm, squeezing back past him towards the door. Stiles takes the chair with its back to the entry, smiling at him as he settles down. 

"That obvious?"

"Hmm?" Stiles asks, looking up at him like he genuinely has no idea what Derek's referencing. And maybe he doesn't.

"Nevermind," he mutters, taking the other seat. The one with a good view of the door and only walls behind it.

"Thanks," Stiles says again, smiling brightly at the server as she sets down the menus. 

"And a cappuccino for me to start off with," he adds, flicking open the menu as the woman nods and turns her attention to Derek.

"Espresso," he says.

She fades away and Derek immediately notices the beat being sketched under Stiles's fingertips on the plastic cover of the menu. But instead of perusing the content of the menu, he's looking at Derek's hands which are folded on the table. They're streaked pretty liberally with slightly faded pigment. Burnt umber. Viridian. 

"Oils" he says, as if that explains everything.

"Oils," Stiles parrots back, eyebrows twitching in query. And when Derek's words don't come faster than Stiles's he continues, "So... like. It sticks to the oils in your skin?"  
Derek nods.  
"May I?" Stiles asks, and Derek is suddenly unsure what he's being asked but nods anyway.

Stiles's fingers are slim, almost bony. And long. Articulate. They look much more like the sort of fingers a painter might have than the thick digits they're curling around. Derek's palms are tugged apart and laid back on the table facing up. Stiles's fingertips trace broad streaks of paint that run over Derek's skin. His amber eyes are so focused on Derek's skin, dark lashes flickering as his gaze darts over the object of his appraisal. Derek swallows. 

When Stiles pulls his hands away, on reflex Derek brings his knuckles up under his nose and breathes in.  
It is a comforting sensation to drag in deeply the scent of linseed oil on his skin. A rich, earthy scent that blocks out the asphalt and detergent and car exhaust that permeates the city air. For a moment anyway. But the oil and pigment are joined by another earthly scent. Human. Masculine but crisp, with overtones of sandalwood and chai and - somewhat idiosyncratically - lemongrass.

He glances at Stiles, suddenly embarrassed. The look on Stiles's face, however, is one of appreciative speculation. Derek doesn't miss the way his right hand twitches toward the camera bag before Stiles reins it in and sets it to work folding a napkin into odd shapes.

"Is the oil what the smell was in your studio?" Stiles asks. 

"Some."

Stiles licks his lips absently as he raises his eyebrows over a smile, urging Derek to continue.

Derek clears his throat and rubs at one of the paint smears with his thumb. "There's also turpenoid, which is kind of like paint-thinner. And sometimes I use galkyd instead of just plain linseed oil."

Stiles looks so genuinely interested that he almost starts explaining about how the pigments each have their own scent except the door opens to the café and the server comes out carrying their coffee. Derek sits back again, tucking his hands back under the edge of his jacket as she sashays over and smiles, setting down the small cups in front of them.

Stiles leans his face over into it and sniffs the coffee. Then he sits back and grins at the server. "So, like, I'm going to order another one, because I'll be done with this by the time it's ready, okay?"  
He glances at Derek, but the artist shifts his head slightly in a no. 

"Sure thing."

"Also, two waters please. And I'd like a cream-cheese Danish, and some curly-fries," Stiles says, handing her the menu.

"Steak sandwich," Derek says, doing the same.

"Great, and I'll be right back with those waters," she says, and disappears again, leaving them in the relative silence of the patio.

Stiles licks his lips and lifts the cappuccino cup to his mouth, dipping into the foam with his tongue before taking a sip. Derek watches him do it, espresso cup halfway to his mouth. When Stiles looks up at him, eyes crinkling in glee, Derek looks down at his espresso and finishes his interrupted gesture with a sip of coffee.

"Hmmm. My verdict is; not bad. Not the best coffee in the city, but not bad," Stiles says, setting the cup back down. "I can live with not-bad, really. Because when coffee is bad it's like _burn your tongue off_ bad. Not like the coffee burns your tongue but like you want to burn your tongue off. Ugh," he shudders.

Derek's not really sure what his tasted like. He stifles a smile as he takes another sip, paying attention to the coffee this time. 

"You're right," he offers.

He receives a grin for his efforts. 

"So," Stiles says, squinting at him. Derek blinks back.

"Tell me everything," Stiles says, grinning. 

At that point the flood of questions begins. At first Derek is a little overwhelmed, but they're good questions. Oh, Stiles asks him questions about his art, about his process. He asks about his history and his inspirations, and any number of questions Derek's been asked before for other interviews. But Stiles also asks the odd questions. 

"What do you wear when you paint? Like do you have lucky underwear?"  
"Have you ever tried painting with your toes?"  
"Do you ever howl at the moon?"

 

It isn't long before Derek is telling him about the rescues - and not just the public version, the version his manager constructed to help publicize their mission. But the personal side, the stories of some of the wolves that had changed his life. Not all of them. Not the ones that he _never_ spoke of. But some. The good ones. The ones that he thought might make Stiles laugh and had him smiling too. He tells him about the upcoming gallery opening and about how most of the proceeds will go to the rescues - which Stiles already knows about, as it turns out. Erica had been efficient as always, coordinating with the magazine to make sure they had an invite. 

He barely notices eating the steak sandwich, though when asked he tells Stiles it is good since he'd gone to the trouble of picking out a place specifically to satisfy Derek's request. He watches Stiles eat curly fries and Danish in alternating bites and doesn't understand, but then again, he's fairly certain he doesn't understand _Stiles_. 

By the time their plates (and Stiles's third cappuccino cup) are empty, Derek realizes he's been talking more than he has in a long time. And even more, he's been talking without even being prompted. Stiles is just sitting there watching him, one arm slung over the back of his chair, chin on his other hand, the corners of his mouth turned up and lips parted slightly. 

When the bill comes, Derek reaches toward it automatically but his hand is nudged away.  
"Ah-ah-," Stiles interjects, fishing out his wallet with the hand not tugging Derek's back to the table. "Expense account," he says, slipping out a credit card and passing it to the server. 

"I mean," he adds as the woman disappears, "We're technically working on an interview here, so might as well use it." 

Derek frowns. He'd almost forgotten that Stiles was here for work. The server is back almost immediately with the receipt and pen, saving Derek from having to drag out any new words.

Derek doesn't miss the eyes the pretty young woman makes at Stiles as she takes the signed receipt and clears away Derek's empty plate. But the way Stiles smiles back appreciatively at the server's flirtation has Derek hesitating. Had he been misreading the signals after all? Was he simply more exuberantly friendly than anything else?

But before he can take that train of thought any further, Stiles is speaking again, drawing his eyes back up from the empty espresso cup he is still holding.

"Listen, I… Do you have time for a walk?" Stiles asks, thumbing his lower lip before sitting back in his chair. "Maple park isn't far from here."

Normally Derek would be sorely tempted to make up an excuse, having already spent more time than he was comfortable with socializing. But, and this surprises him, he finds he doesn't want to cut and run. Not when he studies the other man's face, the inquisitive angle of his eyebrows, the crinkling skin around his eyes and the slight pout of his mouth accented by the dent in his cheek. And a park sounds appealing.

But even still, if he's just to be a subject of questions, he's not sure he can stomach any more official business. "For the interview?" Derek asks hesitantly. 

Stiles's eyebrows go up at that, and Derek feels embarrassment welling up. And yet he doesn't look away. He's glad he doesn't when Stiles's eyes light up and his mouth quirks slightly. He leans forward again, resting his chin on his upturned hand, elbow nudging between his coffee cup and fries plate. His lips part over a reply, though the words are wrangled back on hold as he thinks them through for a moment. It's a precarious game they're playing, after all. 

"No," comes the decisive reply, along with an inviting but cautious smile. 

Derek lets out a slow, tight breath, then smiles slightly.  
"Ok," he says, and Stiles's face splits into a grin. 

 

Derek is pleased to notice that the server doesn't get a second glance on their way out.


	3. Openings

"All right, spill," she demands in lieu of any form of greeting. "You haven't called me in three days. What's his and/or her name?" 

Stiles laughs, rolling over on his bed and throwing an arm behind his neck to settle in for what is bound to be a long conversation. 

He hesitates for a second, then screws up his courage. "Derek," he says, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. 

"Oh my god, seriously?" Lydia replies. He can hear her quick foot-falls and then the sound of her shutting her bedroom door behind her and cutting off the sound of her roommates in the background. "Tell me everything." 

"Well, honestly there's not much to tell," he says, but then adds, "yet." 

She makes a noise that can have no other description than a squeal. "Ok, and?" 

"Well, he's an artist," he begins. 

"Stiles!" she admonishes and he groans at her in exasperation. 

"You know your track record with artists is-," she sighs, "How shall I put this. Disastrous? Cataclysmic? No I don't really think those words are strong enough. Hmm, how about-," 

"Oh come on, it's not _that_ bad and you know it," he retorts, petulant. 

"Oh really? Tim still owes you four-hundred and sixty-two dollars. And Evie got you evicted _and_ very nearly cost you your job. And what about Jo-," 

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles interjects, and then just sighs. "But. You live and you learn," he mutters, and Lydia makes a small sound of agreement that almost sounds sympathetic. Which is a big deal, considering. 

"But seriously, Lyd, he's different. Like, he couldn't be more different if he tried." 

"I want pictures," she demands as she walks, presumably to her desk, heels clacking against the floor. 

"Lydia it's not like we're-," 

"Oh please, like you don't already have a dozen photos of him at _least_ ," she scoffs. 

Stiles scowls at the phone for a moment. "Well fine, maybe I do." 

Lydia makes a triumphant hum. Stiles hears his computer chirrup to signal Lydia is signing on to Skype. 

"But Lydia, I _am_ trying not to come on _too_ strong. I mean, I do have a story to write," he says, even as he's tucking the phone in against his shoulder so he can tug photographer's bag over from his desk till it's sitting on his belly. 

Lydia sighs, "Fine. Be all professional and keep me hanging while you drag out your courtship." 

She pauses for a thoughtful moment before continuing "No but seriously, don't wait too long because I'm in desperate need of some vicarious sex. I haven't gotten laid in... well. _A while_. Why on earth did I ever let you talk me into going to med school?" 

Stiles snorts as he fiddles with the SD card slot on his camera, popping the disk free and sticking it in the slot on his computer sitting nearby and starting the download. 

"Because you're a fucking genius who will change lives." 

She sighs dramatically and says, "I know. But still...," 

He watches the images flash by as they download. Though there were dozens of shots from around the city taken in his perpetually trigger-happy state, half the card was full of Derek, and Derek's work. As part of his research over the past few days he'd visited a number of amenable galleries and private collections which contained some of Derek's work, photographing them in detail. 

But there were so many photos he didn't have yet. And there were some he'd never have, but were images he held in his mind instead. 

He thought of the way Derek had looked scenting the paint streaks on his hands and wondered what _Derek_ smelled like. Oh how he wished he could have taken a photo of him like that, with his guard down for a split second and his eyelashes dark on his cheeks a-, 

"-and seriously are you even listening to me?" Lydia cut in, voice dropping sternly. 

"Um. Yeah," he blurts, scrambling to remember what she'd just said. Something about her new course schedule at med-school conflicting with her part-time job at the boutique. Which, how she manages all that is a mystery to Stiles, but then again, Lydia has always ruled her universe with an iron determination. 

"You must _really_ like this one," Lydia muses, choosing not to be insulted. She does so as though it'd be beneath her to do so. Which it is, honestly. 

"Oh my god you have no idea," he groans, bringing up the first photo of the man in question in full size on his computer. It's Derek, scowling and surprised as he opens the door to Stiles's camera. 

He flick through them, finding the one of him standing in the center of his studio, lit perfectly by the afternoon sun but shadowed by the architecture of the room. Stiles drags the file to the Skype window and sends it Lydia's way. 

"Ooh," she coos, clearly looking at the image. "Look at that _look_ he's giving you! I completely agree. You should do him. Repeatedly. And then tell me all the details." 

"Lydia," he grumbles. "I don't even know for sure yet if he's actually into guys. For all I know he just looks at me that way because he's all _broody_ and _artistic._ " 

"Nonsense. And when will you be seeing him again?" she asks. 

"Gallery opening coming up. Friday night. And it's a doozy. I mean, I know I've been to these things before but it's the biggest one yet. And like, I can hold a conversation but I don't know anything about starships so I have a feeling I'm going to end up a little more on the _mighty fine shindig_ side of things instead. God, there better not be swords." 

"What?" Lydia said, sounding pained. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and snorted. "Oh what like you don't get the reference. I know damn well Miss Lydia Martin that you love sci-fi as much as I do. Seriously though, I probably won't know anyone there." 

"Oh, but you're taking me," she says, and Stiles can practically hear the eye-roll. 

"Lydia, I don’t even think I get a plus-one on a company invite," he says. 

"Pfft," she retorts. "Look, I'll pick you up at six. That way we can take my Audi. Much more appropriate for a gallery opening than your Jeep," she says tartly - and quite correctly, he muses, considering the sleek black car and its pretty LED headlights. 

"Fine, you can be my _companion_ " he mutters, grinning despite himself at her indignant huff as he flops back on his bed. _Knew_ she'd gotten it. "Just-," 

"Oh don't worry honey, I won't interfere with your game," she adds, voice singsong. "Although," she murmurs, fingers clicking away at her laptop keyboard. "He's _very_ handsome." 

"Lydia," Stiles groans. 

"Just teasing," she says, laughing. "Mostly." 

Stiles laughs back. "Good night Lydia." 

"Wait, what are you going to wear?" she demands. 

"Good night," he repeats. 

"'Night hon," she replies and they click off. 

Of course, he ends up calling her the night of the opening to ask her to come early and help him decide on clothes. 

She's already on her way. 

 

\--oOo-- 

 

And damn he was glad she'd insisted on the rocker-suit-jacket (the one she'd insisted he buy - and when he'd refused actually bought him with her own money claiming it was a crime to style everywhere not to put a body like his in a jacket like that) instead of his more bland formal-work-suit. It is a red-carpet event - but like REALLY. There were celebrities. And paparazzi. 

Derek would _hate_ it. 

The invitation had gotten them through the valet security, but the blonde at the door wearing a sharp designer suit eyes them assessingly. Derek's manager, Erica, he realizes when she speaks a greeting and asks for their names. They'd spoken on the phone regarding his article and attendance at the opening. 

She doesn't demand an explanation for the plus one. Instead her gaze lingers on Lydia a while longer than Stiles, which has him grinning since it either means she's checking her out or she's simply expecting Stiles - either way it's good. Of course Lydia promptly responds with a classic disdainful smirk (which actually means she noticed). And a heavy flick of perfect eyelashes. 

The feline smirk that stretches its way onto Erica's lips as she gives them the ok has Lydia looking back at her and raising her eyebrows. 

Stiles smirks at her. She was _flirting_. 

He waggles his eyebrows at her as she takes his arm and leads them into the gallery. 

He leans close to Lydia's ear and murmurs, "I have her number you know." 

Lydia's very lack of reaction is plenty reaction enough for him to know that the habitual haughty look is hiding interest. He grins widely at her obnoxiously until he sees the corner of her mouth turn up and break open her hauteur. 

"Oh shut up," she hisses, guiding them down the chic corridor and out into the entry to the huge renovated-warehouse-space cum gallery. 

And then there he is, standing in an expensive looking suit and a silver shirt open at the neck. His hair is styled to perfection, his stubble the perfect level of scruffy. His teeth are flashing brilliant white as he smiles and exchanges greetings with the guests ahead of them. 

A handsome young man with artfully-tousled golden curls is standing close by. His fashion-forward suit leaves his forearms bare, and the lines of his legs aren't left to the imagination in the tight and perfectly tailored trousers. The bracelet on his wrist is a work of art itself. Stiles watches him lean forward occasionally to whisper in Derek's ear between guests and feels a sharp bubble of disappointment welling inside his chest. 

"Now that _does_ look like trouble," Lydia murmurs as they moved forward in the receiving line. He doesn't dignify her observation with a response. Because if _that_ was his competition, it wasn't trouble, it was game over. Stiles knew he was more or less attractive enough, but he wasn't a living replica of the statue of David like this guy. And if Derek was letting him hang around, his personality was likely decent as well, so... 

And then suddenly the people in front of them are moving on and there's nothing but air between them. The full force of Derek's perfect smile is going a long way towards making it feel like there's not even much air between them at that. 

Lydia's fingers digging into his elbow urge him forward. 

"Stiles," Derek says, the public smile dimming slightly into something softer that has Stiles's stomach doing a flip-flop. 

"Hey," he replies, and winces internally at his ineloquence. He's also fairly certain he's grinning like an idiot. 

Derek stares at him a second before turning his head towards the man standing just off his shoulder. 

"Have you met Isaac?" Derek asks, and the man in question leans forward, extending his hand. 

"No, we haven't had the pleasure," the blonde man says with a charming smile and approachable smile, smoothing over Derek's awkward introduction. 

"Stiles," he replies, shaking Isaac's hand. 

Isaac's eyes slip over to Lydia and Stiles turns abruptly to gesture at her. 

"Oh, and this is my friend Lydia," he says as Isaac shakes her hand. Stiles makes a sheepish face at Derek. "I hope you don't mind that I invited her." 

Derek pushes out his lower lip in the facial equivalent of a shrug before he reaches for her extended hand. 

"I've been hearing so much about you," Lydia says, voice warm and lilting. "Mostly I hear you're exceptional," she makes a quick inspection of Derek's person with a flick of her eyelids. "It's been a while since I've wanted to attend a gallery opening, but I had to make an exception this time." 

Stiles suppresses the urge to glare at her. She was _flirting_. Derek, at least, looks nonplussed at the considerable force of schmooze that is Lydia. He blinks, and offers an awkward smile. 

"Well we certainly hope you enjoy it then," Isaac says, Derek nodding in agreement. Isaac seems sincere, though he's clearly guiding them to move on and let the other newcomers greet the artist. And they're totally holding up the line, Stiles realizes. He smiles at Derek again and moves off with Lydia in tow. 

"You are _Officially Evil_ ," he hisses at her as they are pushed along by the flow of people to move along into the gallery. 

"Please. Don't tell me you missed your cue," she replies caustically, leading him straight to the bar. He blanches, mouth hanging open. 

"You did, didn't you?" she demands, then huffs in annoyance. "You were _supposed_ to be paying attention to the blonde guy's reaction," she adds in a singsong. 

Stiles's face screws up and his mouth gaps open as he scratches the back of his head. "Oh. I knew that." 

He scrambles to think back to what the guy had looked like, but he knew he'd been too busy being horrified at Lydia and staring at Derek's… well, everything really. 

Lydia just shakes her head and detaches herself from Stiles's arm. "I'll let you get to work. Have fun," she says, then slips away into the steadily-growing crowd. 

He frowns at her departure, but knows it would be the opposite of conducive to his work if she were to stick to his side. The camera is fished out of his bag with steady fingers and Stiles begins scanning the room as his fingers automatically stash the lens cap and loop the strap around his forearm. He checks the settings, then settles the camera in his palms, considering his shots. 

He doesn't even look at the art yet, considering instead the ambience of the gallery, the energy of the people in attendance. He slips through the crowd, finding angles of people meeting and greeting. He captures plenty of photos of Derek's public persona, hands tucked in his pockets, teeth shining. 

But next he starts catching people at the paintings. He uses a low f-stop from a distance to blur the surroundings as he tries to capture the looks on people faces when they gaze at the art. The looks of rapture, of awe, of _art_ touching their minds. 

He loses himself in this process, taking hundreds of photos. Some would say that taking so many just meant he wasn't skilled enough to set up his shots, but he disagrees. He works hard to set up shots he wants. That doesn't mean he isn't be willing to be surprised by chance. Unlike some photographers, Stiles believed that the photography wasn't about _him_. It was more about the camera's view. About some unique perspective. 

It is a long time before he puts his camera on standby, finally ready to look at the paintings for himself. He doesn't need to try and photograph them for content right now. He has an appointment in the morning while the gallery is closed to come take the official photos of the works. 

The noise of the socialization fades to a buzz as he steps up to the first painting. It's large, several feet across, only a couple feet high. The majority of the painting is of tangled foliage on a hillside, brushstrokes pulling the eye in complicated paths over detailed depictions of leaves and flowers and rotting branches. Far to the right up on the top of the hill is a lone grey wolf, backlit by the lightness of the sky behind the ridge on which it stands. 

There's a flow to the artwork. The organization of the gallery itself tells a story. 

He's always felt art very viscerally. It's not uncommon for Stiles to sit for hours in museums with his mouth ajar, staring at the pieces he finds the most moving. There is one that sends a shudder through him. The wolf is black, barely distinguishable in some places from the dark environment. Though the brush strokes are bold and almost haphazard, the image is still fathomable. Its teeth are bared and bloody, the twisted chunk of rabbit splayed over its paws as it stares down the viewer. The next several paintings are similarly dark and gut-wrenching, and Stiles presses fingertips to his lips, wondering what Derek would look like painting something like that. 

One of the paintings, the last one, is new. Stiles can still smell the oil curing in the paint. It's roped off from the room with a slightly wider margin than the others. 

But that's not what's important. What's important is the way Stiles's gut twists at the sight of the painting. It's _different_ from most of the others, wild and impulsive and heavily impressionistic. His fingers twitch toward it involuntarily. Oh he's far too far to actually touch it but the urge is there. 

He's not sure how long he stands there, but he's suddenly aware when he's no longer standing there alone. 

"What do you think?" Derek's voice asks, low and soft behind him. 

He feels his heart-rate shoot up at the sound of Derek's voice, but he concentrates on the question. 

"It's…," Stiles struggles to find the words, hand drifting up to gesture aimlessly at the canvas. 

"God, Derek, it's…," he chokes on his words. Things like _awesome_ and _amazing_ and _perfection_ are too mundane from overuse. Finally he just turns, tearing his eyes away from the painting and stepping forward so he can meet Derek's gaze. The green is sharp and searching as he studies Stiles's face. 

"Stiles, you wretch, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?" a low and ebullient voice says behind them. Stiles barely has time to turn before arms are slipping around his waist and a body is being pressed inappropriately firmly against his. 

"Joel," Stiles says over a span of chocolate-toned hair that's being shoved against his face, voice flat as he extricates himself from the man's grip. He can smell the wine on his breath, and he's not at all surprised. Joel's eyes are glassy with drink or some other substance, though Stiles has to admit that's not so different from many of the other attendees. 

"And here's the man himself! Oh, won't you introduce me?" Joel asks, turning a lascivious gaze on the artist. 

Stiles's jaw is clenched tight as he tries to come up with a way to refuse without making a scene. Joel forges on regardless, clearly not having intended to wait for Stiles to introduce him anyway. 

"Joel Coolidge," he says, sticking out the hand not holding his wine-glass towards Derek. "You might have seen some of my work. I had a major exhibit at the modern museum of art last year." 

Stiles frowns bitterly, fighting the urge to butt in and point out that _major_ was Joel code for two pieces and it had actually been more than _two_ years ago and he hadn't produced anything since. 

Derek retreats behind his polite public smile, taking his hand. "It's nice to meet you," he says, avoiding responding to the self-aggrandizing. 

"Soo, how do you know my former fling here?" Joel asks, smirking at Stiles and brushing his hand over Stiles's shoulder. Derek's eyes narrow at the gesture and the words. 

"He's doing a piece on my work for the magazine," Derek says after a moment. 

"Well, then in that case, let me give you some advice. Make sure you do a _really_ good job sucking his dick," Joel whispers sotto voce, easily heard by anyone in the immediate vicinity. "He can be hard to please sufficiently to get a good review article. I should know." 

Stiles can feel the floor dropping out from under him. He stares at Joel in horror as his ex continues like he hadn't just insulted both of them in the most vulgar way possible, saying, "Oh, you should get our photo together." 

The hand reaching for his camera bag galvanizes Stiles into action, shoving Joel back when he tries to insinuate himself against Stiles's side once more. 

"That's complete and utter bullshit," Stiles hisses. "I can't believe you-," 

Joel just shrugs and takes another swig of wine as he turns his back on Stiles mid-sentence and saunters off, mischief apparently made sufficiently to satisfy him. But when Stiles turns to apologize or defend himself or _something_ , Derek has already disappeared into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for another update coming soon on here and on tumblr.  
> Also, anyone vote for a side chapter with Erica/Lydia??


	4. Alleys

He pushes the back door to the alleyway open far more roughly than he intended to. The lights and chatter and people all around - and Stiles. _Stiles_! Looking so hurt and shocked, and then angry, emotions spilling from him like liquid electricity...  
And looking at Derek with those fathomless eyes of his when he'd asked him about the painting.  
It is too much. Way too much and he needs _out_.

The cool and quasi-fresh air hits him like a blow as his hands come up to grip the railing off the exit ramp. The heavy door shuts behind him and suddenly there is silence. Or rather, quiet. There are the sounds of traffic and the city in the background, the muffled voices of the gallery-attendees. But at least outside he can hear his heart beating and his breath over it all. 

He leans on the railing, tipping his head back to stare at the night sky and taking some deep breaths to steady himself. But the sky is murky with city lights and stifled air. No stars shine through. It makes him nauseous.

He hates gallery openings. 

But art, success in art, is as much about celebrity as it is about the art. Another thing he hates. And yet, he reminds himself and hears Erica's voice in his mind, it's true regardless of whether he likes it or not. 

Definitely _not_. He snorts at himself, scrubbing his palms over his features. 

He hears Isaac's voice reminding him that he's lucky to have a pretty face and mysterious past to make the celebrity part easier. Piquing the interest of the art-going crowd had been easy. But keeping that audience required work. And Derek knows that he must tend his investments in order to support his pack; both literally and figuratively. 

Oh, he has money. He _could_ live as a recluse and paint for his own pleasure, content to sell a few paintings here and there and be famous only after his death. Pursuing art for the sake of art, using his trust fund to take care of the rescue. But his parents had always taught him that even if he had resources, that didn't mean he could rely on them to be around forever. They'd taught him not to be selfish.

They'd taught him that lesson a little too well.

He grips the railing hard, trying to fend of further unwanted emotions. That's _definitely_ not something he can bear to think about now. Or ever really. Instead, and most days it works, he focuses on the fact that the pack needs him. He works to make sure that his wolves are protected, and prepares for ways to protect more wolves in the future. So he does the interviews and the auction tours and, most importantly, the gallery openings. He smiles and flirts and smooths the sales process. Still, they are one of the hardest things for him to do. 

It's why he has his human pack. It's why he has not only Erica as his manager, but Isaac as his publicist and Boyd as his - well yes, his lawyer, but in actuality he's his grounding rod. Isaac tells him the names of all the people he forgets, steps in to be charming and wield his considerable social skills when Derek's start to fail. Erica… just plain keeps anything bad from happening. She gets shit done. Makes the openings chic and well-timed. Coordinates the sales. Gets him what he needs. And Boyd is the one person she trusts to help her do all of that. He's also a rock in the middle of the rushing river, unmoved by the insanity of celebrity, a calm place to latch onto when the scene becomes overwhelming.

So he thought he'd had things under control. He'd come into this opening even a little bit excited. It was his best work yet, and hopefully the proceeds would be enough to not only reach his basic budget for the reserve, but be enough that he could consider expanding.

He'd even been looking forward to...

But he hadn't been prepared for this. For _Stiles_. Dressed far more fashionably than he'd expected, tight designer jeans and trendy jacket, a large watch that had somehow suited his lanky frame. He'd looked good. _Really_ good. Uncomfortably good. And yet, somehow, no one else had seemed to pay him much attention. Well, Isaac had given him a significant look, though that could have been about the redhead who'd been with Stiles. But to everyone else he'd seemed invisible. It seems strange to Derek, who'd barely been able to take his eyes off him. He'd been surprisingly comfortable here - but then again, the fact was that this was what Stiles did for a living. He decides that it must be Stiles's skills as a photographer that let him slip so gracefully through the crowd unnoticed. 

Seeing those amber eyes dancing around the energy of the gallery, and then later simply devouring his paintings… Derek takes a tight breath over the bump in his pulse that occurs at the memory of the way Stiles's face looked when he'd gazed at each one in turn, like nothing else in the world existed for him right then.  
It had felt strangely intimate to Derek, though Stiles had hardly looked his direction.

And then, when Derek had been unable to resist, when he'd been looking at the new painting... when he _had_ looked in Derek's direction...

Even then he hadn't been prepared for the full impact of his eyes. The noise and bustle of the party had faded around him. Suddenly it had felt like he was alone with Stiles and the painting, with the smell of linseed oil in the air - and chai and lemongrass.

And then everything had come crashing back to reality. He _definitely_ hadn't been prepared for Joel or whatever his name was. He feels a burst of anger welling up in his chest, at the accusation, at himself for not defending Stiles against such a personal attack. But the anger doesn't completely mask the edge of doubt that the whole thing has sparked. Vulnerability is the last thing he needs to feel at an event like this. He wishes suddenly that Stiles hadn't come to the opening at all.

Naturally that's when the door slams open behind him. 

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," Stiles is saying as he spills through the doorway, jerking haphazardly to a halt as he hits the railing beside Derek, curling awkwardly around the camera hanging from his neck to protect it from the metal edge. 

"Derek, oh god, I'm so sorry about that. He's such a dick," Stiles continues, stepping towards him a half-step and then thinking the better of it and stopping short a few feet away. His fingers fiddle with the strap of his camera, probably completely unbeknownst to him. 

"I gathered that," Derek says, voice a little more gruff than he'd intended. He frowns.

"Look I know I should probably leave you alone and get the hell out of here before I make things worse but I - I'm not like that," he says, eyes wide and voice tight with what is probably a wild mix of emotions. "Like he said. I'm not like that." 

Those eyes draw Derek's gaze, darting over his face. Earnest. Embarrassed. Maybe a bit angry. Maybe even… scared? 

_I know you're not_ Derek thinks, but the words stay buried under the defensive layer of doubt that tangles with all his thoughts as he grips the railing harder. For all that he mingled with the celebrity set, he knew he didn't know how to play any of the games. Stiles, it seemed, was no stranger to them.

Stiles looks away, cheeks flushing, quirky mouth bowing downward.

"But that sort of accusation, it's…," he pauses, scrubbing a rough hand over his mouth. Stiles sets his jaw and takes a deep breath before continuing. "I'll completely understand if you'd like me off the story. I want you to know that if you are uncomfortable working with me further, I'll do whatever is needed to get someone to take your story so you get a fair review."

Derek glances at him, then frowns at the railing on the sloped access ramp on which he'd been leaning. He clears his throat, determined to say something. What comes out is probably a surprise to both of them.

"He doesn't really seem like your type," Derek says, apparently ignoring his offer to quit the story for the moment. 

Stiles's laugh is mirthless. "Oh, but believe me, _I_ was _his_ ; naïve and new to the big city lights. Turns out he's actually pretty charming when he's not drunk. And I didn't really know how to see past the charisma back then," Stiles says, voice going a little flat and bitter. He shakes his head and sighs, looking suddenly much older and more tired than before. 

Derek doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say. His impulse is to touch Stiles, to squeeze his shoulder or touch his hand. But he doesn't. He can't, for so many reasons.

"Well, look," Stiles says quietly, shrugging off the bitterness and putting on a slight smile. "I'll get out of your way and stop inciting drama at your opening…."  
He hesitates, licking his lips as he considers. "But I just… before I go, I just wanted to say what I was going to say before the night imploded around me. To reply to your question."

He steps closer, tilting his head and looking at Derek's face in search of his eyes. Derek obliges him after the merest moment of hesitation, turning to look at him. And suddenly Stiles is looking at him again with eyes that are hungry and intense, the way he'd been looking at the paintings. Derek swallows reflexively.

"Because that painting? The one you asked me about? It's heart-breaking," he says, two long fingers jabbing against his breastbone through his shirt to emphasize his words. "I can't come up with any other words that do it justice."

It's dark in the alley, though the glow of the city around them keeps it from being anywhere near black. The lone light over the exit casts sharp shadows over Stiles's face. The glimmer of his eyes and the cliff of his lips is mesmerizing as Derek takes in his words. There is a rush of sensation in his head as they sink into him. They're exactly right, exactly what he'd hoped to hear and been terrified of.

He opens his mouth to say something back, but all he can hear is the reverberation of those words in his chest. Instead he offers a nod since his words are failing him once more.

There's a brief silence, and he nods again, glancing at Stiles briefly before staring down at the railing beneath his fingers.

"Ok," Stiles begins, nodding again. "So, again, I apologize about…" Long fingers gesture vaguely. "And I'll talk to Erica about arranging for a replacement," he says quietly, face drawn tight. He gazes at Derek a moment, waiting just in case he's going to offer a response, then nods and says, "Good night," and turns to walk down the ramp towards the alley.

Derek's pulse stutters at the sight of his back, head down and hands stuffed in his pockets.  
Leaving.  
 _Leaving_

"Are you seeing anyone?" Derek blurts, and Stiles's head pops up and then his body spins towards Derek, eyes widening as he stops dead in the alleyway. He drifts a hesitant step closer, fingers drumming against his thigh.

"Ah, no, actually. Not at all," Stiles says with a tentative smile.

"I… ah. That's good," Derek replies. 

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, looking up at him, amber eyes reflecting in the light. 

And then Derek does something he doesn't do very often; he smiles at him. And not with his professional smile, but with the small shy curve of lips that spreads up to his eyes. Stiles's eyes and smile widen in response.

"Yeah," Stiles says again, backing away slowly. "So I'll, uh… I'll see you later?" he asks cautiously.

"Count on it," Derek says firmly, because of that one thing he is certain.

"Ok," Stiles says, grinning at him. "That's… yeah. Ok. See you later," he says, turning and swinging his way down the alleyway, far more spring in his step this time. He does a quick shuffle step and pumps a fist in the air as he walks away.

Derek huffs a faint laugh at the sight, watching him depart.

Of course, before he's halfway down the alley, Stiles turns abruptly, swinging his camera up and snapping a photograph, grinning. But the grin fades into something more weighty as stares at Derek. He takes a more deliberate photo, then lets out a rough breath through parted lips and backs away a few paces before turning and disappearing out the mouth of the alley.

Derek feels a grin fighting to make it's way onto his face and for once he lets it. 

He's still smiling several minutes later when Erica slips out the door to come stand beside him.

"Doing ok?" she asks, reaching out to slip idle fingers through his hair. She leans against his arm, pushing tight against him in a way few people are permitted to - and even fewer know he appreciates.

He makes a non-committal grunt in response, leaning his head against hers a little.

"I see we lost a photographer," she says, voice carefully neutral. "So, will I be getting awkward phone calls or was the crisis averted?" she asks, and he purses his lips. Nothing ever got by her.

"Nothing to worry about," he says with a twitch of eyebrow, and she sends him an amused-but-not-amused look.

"And if he… ah. Tries to offer to get a replacement for himself. Decline," he adds.

"Found one you're thinking of keeping?" she says, mocking her faux slyness with a waggle of eyebrows.

He glares at her. He doesn't particularly want to dignify her teasing with a response, but… "Something like that," he says, just to be sure she'll be clear on the fact that he still wants Stiles to do the story.

She smirks at him, then turns on the railing, leaning back on it and patting his hand. "Got it. No axing of photographer."

"The opening is a success so far. Good turn out of the A-list guests. We're also doing well on sales so far. A couple are even getting contentious," she says, back to business. She tilts her head. "Also, we're getting queries about the new painting...," she adds, a question in her voice.

He glances down the long dark column of the alleyway.  
"It's not for sale," he says.

She quirks an eyebrow at him as the corner of her mouth nudges upwards. Erica pats his arm, then her hand stays there for a minute as her face turns a little sad, holding his arm in a comforting grip before she rests her temple on his shoulder.  
 _Found one you're thinking of keeping?_  
She runs her lower lip through her teeth, then shrugs and says "Ok." 

She straightens then, lifting away from the railing and heading back towards the gallery, then turns a raised eyebrow on him. 

"Ok," he agrees.

She holds the door for him, and he puts on his best public smile as he follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um... you can also come be my friend on tumblr if you want... I would like some more friends who like teen wolf so I feel less like a weirdo.


	5. Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And since the readers voted in favor of it - now a Lydia chapter... just to ~~tortuously delay your Sterek gratification~~ let her and Erica play, since they insisted on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And hello bumping of the rating up to explicit! Told you it would happen sooner or later ;)
> 
> If you're one of the rare breed of readers who is not a fan of explicit femslash I guess you could potentially skip the second half of this chapter without missing any important parts of the plot. But that would be sad, because these two have some serious chemistry IMO XD

It's hours later when Lydia finally gets a text back from Stiles. He'd gone home, and she wasn't to wait for him and he'd explain everything later and she might as well enjoy herself because she was amazing.  
Or something like that.

But, she confirms, glancing over her shoulder and catching sight of the dark-haired broody _artist himself_ , he'd gone _alone_. Lydia huffs, stuffing her phone back in her purse. Of course Stiles would disappear on her and not even have the decency to make it for the reason of getting laid. 

No matter. She'd just enjoy the art.

"Oh my, look at you, ditched by your date and all alone," a low and velvety woman's voice says behind her. "What a shame."

Lydia turns to look over her shoulder, eyebrows raised as the blonde woman steps up to stand next to her, hands tucked in her expensive-looking suit trousers. 

"I believe the answer you're looking for is actually D) none of the above," Lydia replies archly, turning back to the painting. She decides that she is really going to have to convince her mother to buy some of this Derek-person's art. A good investment, and also something she'll actually _want_ to inherit.

The laugh she receives in return is surprisingly light and musical, though there's a faint rasp to it. 

"My mistake," the woman says, then tilts her head, sending a sprawl of sleek hair over her shoulder. "I'm Erica, by the way," she says, long eyes gazing at Lydia from beneath a heavy fringe of lashes. "You know, in case you wanted some replacement company."

Lydia allows one eyebrow to drift up before looking over at Erica assessingly. Then she frowns down at Erica's clothes again as she sips her wine. It annoys her that she doesn't recognize the designer of the suit, because it is clearly not off the department store rack.

"It's custom," Erica says, smirking and drawing Lydia's narrowed eyes up to her face. 

"These though," she says, extending her leg and tilting her foot to highlight the sleek heels "are _Alleyne J'iorda_ of course."

"Naturally," Lydia says, glancing down at her own shoes by the same designer with a flick of her eyelashes. She smirks into her wine glass. But then she nestles the base against her breast and tilts her head towards the other woman, dragging in a slow breath.

"And _Artemis_ ," Lydia pronounces, naming the perfume she scents off Erica. "Interesting choice."

Erica looks surprised, but covers it quickly with another full-lipped smile. 

"I approve of your taste," Lydia continues magnanimously, inspiring another feline smirk on the other woman's face. But then Erica leans closer to Lydia, tilting her nose closer to the redhead's neck and takes a return breath of scent.

"Talk about unexpected," she murmurs, dragging a hand through her hair and pushing it back over her shoulder. " _Carthusia_ ," she says, then adds after a moment's consideration, " _Fiore di Capri_."

"My my," Lydia hums over her glass of sangiovese, actually impressed.

They both stare at the painting for a moment in silence, neither of them really looking at it.

"So, doing anything tonight?"

Lydia eyes her in surprise, "Aren't you…," she gestures vaguely with her wine glass at the gallery.

Erica glances down at the slim wrist-watch on her arm. "Actually, the opening's going to be wrapping up in about an hour, and Derek doesn't do parties, so…,"

Lydia considers for a moment. "Hmm," she murmurs, tilting her head. "I've never stayed to the end of a gallery opening before," she muses airily.

"Could be worth your while," Erica replies, then offers her a wink before turning and slipping away into the crowd.

 

Lydia stays to the end of the gallery opening. 

She hangs back as the majority of the guests are ushered out. She sees Isaac clap a friendly hand on Derek's shoulder and murmur something in his ear, then offer him a farewell wave as he slips his arm around the waist of a willowy woman with designer dress and ebony skin with a seriously impressive afro. She looks like she'd walked straight off a magazine cover. They both do, Lydia muses, watching them head out of the gallery.

She's a little hesitant - not that anyone would know to look at her, walking around the gallery with a practiced ennui, wine glass in hand, gazing at the paintings while others filtered out. But none of the attendants shoo her away. In fact, it is clear they are specifically _not_ shooing her, because they are certainly shooing others.

Before long she's the only one left in the gallery save a few staff who are clearing up. She finishes the last sip of her wine and sets it on one of the trays before getting out of their way, going to stand near the last painting in the gallery.

Oh she'd been so _livid_ to see Joel interrupting Stiles and Derek. If she hadn't been on the other side of the room, she would have been there in an instant to drag Joel away or intercept him before he could ruin things again. Because Stiles really liked this Derek guy, and in her opinion, from the look of things, the feeling was pretty damn mutual. And it was about damn time Stiles met someone who would actually appreciate him for what he was worth. She should know. She'd been plenty guilty of not seeing him for what he was back when they were kids.

But as it had turned out she hadn't been able to do more than just point Stiles in the direction Derek had gone when things had clearly gotten out of hand. Well, and keep a very sharp eye on Joel till he'd stumbled his way out of the gallery soon after.  
So she'd stayed, and enjoyed herself. And maybe, if she was lucky, she was going to continue to enjoy herself well into the night.

The clack of heels on the polished concrete floors echoes in bright contrast to the service crew's soft work shoes. Lydia turns, cocking a slow eyebrow as she watches Erica approach in long strides, hands tucked in her pockets, a pleased little smile on her face.

"You stayed," she murmurs, drawing to a halt in front of Lydia.

Lydia does not deign to respond to the obvious. She simply tilts her head slightly.

Erica laughs faintly. "So. I'm planning this little after party at my apartment," she says, leaning a little closer and tilting her head in the opposite direction of Lydia's. "Very exclusive," she adds.

"Oh?" Lydia murmurs. "And who makes the list?" she asks, though she's fairly certain she knows the answer given the wicked way Erica's lips are curling.

"You are the list."

Lydia flicks her eyebrows up and smirks. She lifts a finger to twirl the end of one of Erica's golden locks around it and leans close. "Well then, what are we waiting for?"

 

The car ride isn't long. Lydia fills the air with chatter about the latest items in the boutique. Though her analyses of the latest fashions are usually quite apt, neither of them listen to what she says. Erica's driving style demands a significant amount of attention, but even if she'd been a lazy driver, the tension in the car is thick enough to distract them both from much conversation.

Lydia touches up her make-up in the mirror, lingering over her lip-gloss deliberately, preening more than doing any sort of actual maintenance. She approves of the car, a brand new Nissan 350 Z with all the extras and plenty of zip - which Erica demonstrates flawlessly. Lydia is enjoying herself thoroughly.

When they arrive at the destination, she's pleased again to see the nice entry complete with doorman. Erica leads the way to the elevator with long strides. Her phone buzzes and chirrups as they're stepping onto the car and she murmurs an automatic "Excuse me," as she reads the message. She types a reply on the way up. The elevator shaft has a glass back wall and Lydia turns, watching the city lights as they rise higher and higher.

Eventually the car stops, and Erica steps off, finishing up her message and hitting send. She glances at Lydia, then a slow smile crosses her face as she deliberately puts it on silent. She walks backwards a pace, saying "this way," before turning the corner and walking to the end of the hall. She unlocks the door and steps inside, tossing her keys and phone in an artistic bowl sitting on a sideboard below a large mirror just past the door. Lydia follows, stepping aside to let the door close, then reaching back automatically to flip the locks.

Erica turns to look at her, sweeping her gaze over her person. Lydia lifts her chin and her eyebrows, crossing one ankle over the other as she cocks a hip. Expectant and dismissive at the same time. A Lydia Martin special. 

"So, martini? Chick Flick?" Erica drawls, articulating the K sounds mockingly. She places a hand against the door, backing Lydia up against it, gazing at her with heavy-lidded eyes. 

"Or, I suppose I could always just fuck you right now, up against the door," she says scandalously, leaning closer and slipping her tongue teasingly over her lower lip, hovering just inches away from that freshly-minted gloss. 

Lydia glances down at her mouth with distinct interest, but makes a hum of disagreement instead and slips past her, striding forward into the living room, running a hand over the white micro-suede couch-back and peering around the apartment. 

"Don't be silly," she says with a little laugh as she strides further into the apartment. "The bed is far more comfortable," she calls over her shoulder as she clicks her way down the hall towards the bedroom, putting plenty of swing into her hips.

There is a faint laugh behind her, and then the sound of Erica's footfalls trailing after her as she noses her way around till she finds Erica's bedroom.

"Hmm, what have we here?"

She wanders around Erica's room like she owns the place, dragging fingertips over the collection of perfume bottles, opening her closet doors to glance over her clothes.

She pauses for a moment to gaze at the small painting of a tawny wolf hanging above her dresser, and then the small collection of photographs which include Derek and Isaac and another tall man with a gentle smile whom she hadn't met but is clearly a part of the pack.

However, she has a particular goal in mind, and she turns back to Erica, who is leaning against her vanity table, gazing at Lydia with heavy eyes. Slowly Lydia backs up till her knees hit the foot of the bed. She turns so that she can crawl onto it.  
Erica crosses her arms when Lydia crawls up onto the mattress, her light cocktail dress riding up high enough on her backside to nearly expose the curve of her ass. Her every motion is deliberate.

"Well? Are you coming?" she asks, turning and settling down in the middle of the bed.

"You're crazy," Erica murmurs, eyes sparking as she tracks her gaze over Lydia's curves.

"You know you want it," Lydia says haughtily, spreading her knees further, incidentally forcing the fabric of her dress higher on her thighs till the lace of her thong is visible at their peak. 

She approves when Erica sets her exquisite jacket aside carefully before tackling her to the bed.

The slide of Erica's silk trousers sliding along her bare leg is tantalizing. Perhaps not as tantalizing, however, as those wry lips within nipping distance. Lydia pushes herself up, rolling them both so that she can pin Erica to her bed. She straddles her hips and slips her fingers through the mass of blonde hair, getting a firm grip on the other woman's head before she dips hers to plunder her mouth. 

Her mouth is hot, and sweet with the taste of her lip-gloss as Erica's hands are slipping up the backs of her thighs to grip her ass, pulling her tight so that Lydia's body grinds against hers. The kisses are bruisingly hard. They both have a tendency to bare their teeth in feral grins between presses of lips, clashing soft skin with hard teeth, both incidentally, and then even more intentionally.

Erica isn't content to stay on her back for long, though, and she rolls them again, pinning Lydia back now. She grips the redhead's wrists and presses them back into the bed on either side of her shoulders, putting a little arch into her back and bringing her pretty little breasts closer to her mouth. Lydia's dress is somewhat askew now, the pink lace of her bra showing more than anything else.

Erica noses her way between Lydia's breasts, rubbing her cheek against the soft mounds. Her heartbeat is fast and hard. Between it and her breath, those breasts are moving in a sensual rise and fall beneath Erica's lips. She nips at the soft skin above the lace. But when her hands trail down Lydia's sides and can't reach her ass, she makes a moue of disappointment, before smirking and lifting up onto her knees.

Lydia looks up at her expectantly, cheeks flushed and lips reddened and parting over quickened breaths.  
She grips Lydia's deliciously curvy hips and twists, rolling Lydia back onto her front. She buries her hands in the rumpled flouncy pool of dress over Lydia's ass, pinning her to the bed with a hand in the small of her back, kneading the rounded flesh gratuitously as she nips and kisses her way down Lydia's spine. Then she sits back and pulls hard, dragging Lydia up onto her hands and knees. 

She reaches for the hem of Lydia's dress and drags it up over her backside, exposing her bare cheeks on either side of the strip of lace between them. Erica settled herself behind Lydia, stroking long fingers over the soft skin.

"This isn't your first rodeo, is it? Because I'd really like to get to the good stuff soon, you know, if you think you're capable-,"

Erica's hand cracks down on Lydia's ass and she squeaks, then tosses her hair over her shoulder as she purrs, "Ooh, touchy, touchy!" dipping her back further so that her ass is presented even more openly to Erica.

Erica sends her a dirty look - complete with dirty promises behind the twist of her lips, and bends her head down to Lydia's ass. She bares her teeth and nips at the pinkening flesh of her palm-print, trailing little bites up to the edge of Lydia's pretty thong. She gets a mouthful of fabric and drags it down fast to her knees. Then she kisses her way back up the soft backs of Lydia's thighs while her hands finish pulling the scrap of fabric down her legs and over her heels to be cast aside in a random direction. 

"Oh god," Lydia whimpers despite herself as Erica's lips brush her nether ones, tongue darting out to part the folds in a quick stripe. Erica's fingers dig in on the curve of Lydia's bum and spread her further, giving her better access to the tight dip of her sex.

She teases with slow, long strokes that leave Lydia thoroughly wet. After a thorough exploration of her sex from this angle, Erica sits back and takes a nice hard look, running her fingers over the soft pink folds. She brings her hand back for another sharp tap much closer to Lydia's pussy this time and receives a breathy moan for her efforts. But it seems she wants more and twists so that she can lay on her back. She nudges Lydia's thighs apart above her head and after a moment, Lydia catches on and slips her knees down on either side of Erica's body. Erica's long fingers skim up under her dress, pushing the fabric even further up her body until Lydia drags it over her head in frustration and tosses it to the floor. Erica's smile is smug as she bumps her hands up under Lydia's breasts, cupping them, then kneading them firmly, thumbs swiping over her nipples through the lace of her bra. 

With deft motions the straps are shoved off Lydia's shoulders and the cups tugged down so that her peaked nipples jut out over the tops of the lace. Erica bows her head up to brush her lips along the sensitive skin along Lydia's ribs, fingers flicking sporadically at her nipples. 

Just as unexpectedly, Erica switches her mouth to one of the peaked buds as her hands travel south again till her fingers are sliding in the residue of her saliva, sinking into Lydia with a quick thrust. 

It isn't long, however, before she deems this insufficient and pushes her way back down to Lydia's hips, slipping her fingers from her. She tips her head back so that she can look up at Lydia, where her head is hanging down and watching between her breasts, head haloed by a curtain of red-gold hair. Erica slips those fingers into her own mouth, watching as Lydia's lips form an "O". Then, fingers licked clean, she lifts her head in pursuit of more of that tangy flavor. 

"Fuck," Lydia moans as Erica's tongue swirls around her clit.

Erica doesn't waste any time setting up an unpredictable pattern and a fast pace as her tongue teases Lydia's nub. She curves her hands around the smooth skin of Lydia's backside to stabilize her when her thighs shake.  
Lydia's breath is coming faster and more unevenly by the second, her breasts swinging with each tremor that rocks her core. Erica is relentless, driving her up hard and fast. She clearly knows what she's doing, interspersing hard little sucks that have Lydia mewling, and deft fingers that tease her opening, rubbing just inside her in a way that has her internal muscles clamping down hard. It isn't long before she's breathing in choked spurts, body trembling in anticipation of her crest. 

"Oh," Lydia cries as Erica goes in for the kill, tongue moving hard and fast over her clit. "Fuck yes," she hisses as her body locks and the orgasm erupts through her core, thighs tightening around Erica's head involuntarily as she presses her face into the sheets with a moan. The soft curve of her belly pulses as her abdominals work out the last of her tremors and she lifts her face to suck in a greedy breath, fingers tight in the sheets.

When she comes down she rolls off Erica to sprawl on the bed. Erica sits up and turns to face her. When Lydia looks up at her, she swipes her thumb theatrically along the corner of her mouth, collecting the wetness there with a smirk. She glances down at her hand as she licks it off her fingers and then looks back over at the other woman, probably expecting to see her still sprawled on the bed. But Lydia's already rolled over and slipping up onto her elbows, looking completely disheveled. But not worn out. Not by a long shot, Erica realizes as Lydia crawls towards her, pretty pouty lips twisting into a wicked smirk.

"Well," she coos, plucking at the buttons of Erica's blouse with steady motions that have her shirtless in mere moments, far more deftly than Erica had expected. Her smoky eyes dip to follow Lydia as she feathers kisses down Erica's chest, fingers slipping her bra closures open and casting it aside. The redhead tilts her neck so that she can gaze up at Erica from between her breasts, eyes full of mischief. "That was a nice _start_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh I'm not even supposed to be working on this story right now because of the MEBB!  
> But. Stay tuned for a Stiles chapter coming probably this next week.  
> Oh and you can maybe come hang out and be my friend on tumblr... you know... if you want. http://trilliath.tumblr.com/


	6. Packs

Stiles _is_ nervous this time. It means his fingers are no longer beating out interesting rhythms on his camera case. Instead he's rubbing his thumb in slow circles against his forearm. Not that he notices that either.

He hadn't called Erica. He should have called her. If he was wrong, and things weren't copasetic… well it's not like showing up and pretending he though it was all good would make any difference if Derek or Erica had decided he needed to be off the story. 

Not that he'd spent hours typing and deleting text messages to Derek. Definitely not that. 

Too late now.

The door is unlocked to the main foyer, and the security guard eyes him with polite interest as he approaches.

"Ah, hi, how are you?

"I'm doing all right," the man says, raising one salt and pepper eyebrow at him. "Something I can help you with?"

"Stiles Stilinski here to see-,"

The main door swings open again interrupting him as Erica marches in, saying over her shoulder, "No I'm sure it's fine, I'll just check with Aresh."

She's dressed simply in jeans and a tee shirt today, a stark contrast to the woman coming in behind her in a fashionable cocktail dress and high heels. Not that it is uncommon for Lydia Martin to be seen dressed to the nines. Still, it is far too glam for early morning, which has Stiles grinning like an idiot. Walk-of-Lydia-Martin's-fabulous-and-totally-got-laid.

"Oh!" Erica says, coming to a halt. "Mr. Stilinski," she says, surprised.

"Stiles," he corrects automatically, though his heart drops at the indicator that he wasn't expected.

"Stiles," she repeats, then looks down at her watch. "Oh. Oh!" she clears her throat awkwardly, glancing over her shoulder at Lydia who is inspecting her nails haughtily in classic "Don't blame me if I'm too fabulous for your little schedules" style.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," Erica says. "I just need to get Lydia to her car, and then I'll be with you in just a little bit."

"Sure, sure, no rush," he says grinning at Lydia, who ignores him from behind her sunglasses. Which, ok, he totally deserves for ditching her the night before. He grins even wider as Erica turns to the guy at the desk and starts asking him about any news from the valet company and such. Stiles makes an obnoxious face at Lydia who ignores that too, so he slips out his phone and texts her.

_OMG YOU TOTALLY GOT LAID_

She sniffs, ignoring the chime in her purse for all of five seconds before she pushes her sunglasses up onto her disheveled hair and checks her phone. She reads it, then rolls her eyes at Stiles, then types a quick message. Though the corner of her mouth is inching up.

His phone chimes in reply.  
 _Well one of us had to_

 _Ouch_ he texts back, grin completely undiminished.

"Sorry, these companies are usually better about this." Erica says to Lydia, "Their number is in the office."  
She steps past Stiles and holds the gallery door open for them and they file out into the space. The empty gallery makes for a great deal of echo, even though Lydia is the only one with loud shoes. The noise has a blonde head leaning out of the office door. Isaac smiles when he sees them and comes out of the office.

"Oh good you're here," Erica says, waving him over. "Come help me get Stiles set up."

Isaac pops over to greet Stiles again, shaking his hand with practiced professionalism.  
Lydia trails after Erica, who disappears into the office.

"All right, so where do you want to start?"

Stiles spins his rollerbag in an idle circle, glancing around the room. His eyes light upon the last painting, the one Derek had asked him about. Before he can second-guess the impulse he finds himself drifting across the empty floor towards the painting. After a moment, Isaac's footfalls come along behind him, shoes which are likely Italian leather making hardly any sound on the floor. 

"So, you're doing a story on Derek?" Isaac asks, though he clearly already knows the answer. But he's making conversation, which is something Stiles can definitely appreciate.

He lays down his bag, un-strapping the different cases and unlatching them as he speaks. "Yeah. My magazine does features on a wide variety of topics, primarily featuring interesting people in the northwest. I like to work with artists. They're always the most interesting to get to know, at least in my experience."

Isaac makes a face that says he doesn't disagree as he watches Stiles load things out of the bags. 

"Plus, you know, I get to see all this," he adds, gazing up at the painting for a long moment before shaking his head and getting back to setting up his gear with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Mm," Isaac says in response, hands tucked into his pockets and legs crossed absently. 

Stiles glances up at him, but finds his face inscrutable for a moment before it breaks into a practiced smile. "Is there anything you'll need from us?" Isaac asks, tilting his head towards the office.

Stiles pouts a lip in consideration as he glances around the space, scratching at the back of his head. "I mean, gallery spaces are pretty easy, but if I can get access to any light and window controls, that would be helpful."

"I'll see what we can do," Isaac says, watching Stiles as he continues to lay out gear. Then he gazes up at the painting for a long moment as Stiles begins to extend one of the tripod's legs.

"You know, it's funny," Isaac continues, and Stiles glances up at him inquisitively when he pauses. Isaac smiles secretively. "I was surprised when Derek told me that he'd only known you a few days. I would have thought he had known you a while. You know, from the way he was acting."

Stiles's fingers pause on the screw he'd been tightening and the neck of the tripod begins sliding back down slowly as he gapes up at Isaac.

"Why, what'd he say?" he blurts before he can stop himself. He feels his cheeks heating as he clears his throat awkwardly and scrambles to finish setting the tripod.

Isaac smirks mischievously. "Oh he didn't _say_ anything. It was more how he... moved."

And then Stiles is unavoidably thinking about how Derek moves. Which is like… a tangled up ball of _potential_ energy, of vectors all colliding _inward_ and making him heavy like his core has its own center of gravity. Not like Stiles, whose vectors all point outwards, colliding with everything else.  
But Isaac had meant something different, hadn't he? About how Derek moved in actual relation to _him_.

Isaac is staring at the painting again, even his drawn eyebrows doing little to mar the polished-marble perfection of his features.  
"Derek's so… well if I didn't know better, I'd say he thought of you as one of us," he said quietly, like he wasn't sure he was going to say it.

Stiles blinks at him. "Us?"

Isaac considers him for a long moment, then reaches up to the slightly unbuttoned crisp white shirt he's wearing under his suit jacket. He pulls the fabric aside till Stiles can see the tattoo on his chest. A wolf's paw. Stiles is fairly certain his mouth is ajar. Isaac shrugs as he rights his clothing.

"We go back a long way." 

Before he can ask any of the thousand questions that are burbling up in his mind, Erica is once more approaching them, Lydia no longer in tow. His pocket vibrates and he doesn't even have to check it (though he does) to know it's Lydia texting him that she's safely to her car and on her way home. Play fights were one thing, but they kept tabs on each other. They… well, it was a big city, and they were from a small town.

And before she can do much more than say hello, the door to the gallery is opening again and another tall man in a suit is approaching. Stiles suddenly feels self-conscious in comparison to the group. They're all dressed like models, or at least professionals. And here he is in his tattered lacrosse hoodie. But his jeans are nice. He busies himself with the setup, slips up a reflector stand to capture a little of the natural light coming in and bounce it more evenly over the canvas. 

"Boyd," Erica says, voice surprised but warm.

"Hey Erica, when you get a minute," he says in a soft voice and indicates the stack of papers in his hands. "Got some of the sale paperwork for you to sign."

"Already?"

The self-satisfied smirk that crosses Boyd's face has Isaac casting a sidelong smirk at them and Erica rolling her eyes.  
"Right. Ok, sure, I can come now I think, if you're ok-," she says, turning to Stiles. But then she pauses, distracted by a buzzing from her pocket. "Really?" she asks the air. Stiles grins.

"You're ok here, yes?" she confirms with him, receiving a thumbs-up from Stiles as she is fishing the phone out of her pocket to look at the readout. 

"Oh and it's Derek," she says, rolling her eyes. "Excuse me a second," she says to everyone and moves off a little ways to answer the phone.

Isaac steps in, taking her place smoothly once more. Stiles is beginning to see what he meant about there being an _us_. A pack, he thinks, glancing up at the wolves chasing along in the paintings around him.

"Boyd, this is Stiles Stilinski with On Edge Magazine. He's doing the story on Derek."

Boyd tucks the papers under his arm and extends his hand. Stiles fumbles his camera into his left hand and takes his handshake with a grin. 

"Nice to meet you," Stiles says, glancing speculatively at the stack of papers under his arm.

"I do the legal stuff for the group," he explains broadly. "Someone's got to keep the crazy ones out of trouble."

Isaac casts a playful glare in his direction that is definitely more fond than annoyed. Stiles sees him stifle the impulse to nudge Boyd with his elbow. It surprises him a little, given what he knows of Derek, that his friends would be such social people. Then again, maybe that explains it after all.

"I'll bet. So... uh. Is this the whole pack?" Stiles asks, gesturing at the three of them. It suddenly seems very important to know. 

Boyd laughs, surprised. He rubs a hand absently over his chest, in more or less the same place Isaac bore a tattoo. Over his heart. He glances over his shoulder at Erica on the phone with Derek. "Something like that," he replies, grinning. He exchanges a glance with Isaac that Stiles can't read at all. 

Feeling embarrassed he nods. "Cool," Stiles says, for lack of anything better to add. He nods and then turns back to his camera. Boyd and Isaac begin chatting, discussing the opening and the paperwork Boyd had brought, leaving Stiles to work. He takes a few test shots, getting familiar with the light and the painting. While they're chatting, Stiles maneuvers his way around his set-up, getting an angle where he can see all three of them. Quickly, before they can notice what he's up to, he snaps a few candid shots of the three of them. 

Freaking models, the lot of them, he thinks, rolling his eyes at the preview images. He adjusts one more reflector, and then steps back to look at the full view. Just about right. 

" _What_?" Erica says behind him, voice reverberating around the gallery. Both Boyd and Isaac's heads snap up in response. "Are you-," she halts, upset. Stiles can't resist turning his head to look at her as well, curious. Erica is frowning but she makes a small "it's ok" sort of gesture before turning away from them and striding towards the office.  
The other two men gaze after her, frowning. Stiles gnaws on his lip as he finishes locking his camera into the tripod. Boyd moves after Erica. After a hesitant glance in Stiles's direction, Isaac follows him.

Despite the strong pull of his curiosity, Stiles tries to focus on getting the shots. He has a job to do.  
While there are a lot of paintings to capture in the next couple hours before the gallery opens to the public, he's good at what he does. Soon he settles into a steady pace, focused on the art, on capturing as much of it's nuance as he can. And honestly, it's easy to get immersed in the photography because it's easy to get immersed in Derek's paintings.

But in the back of his mind he's totally wondering about whatever it was that Derek had said to so upset Erica. 

 

Ok, yeah, it's basically all he can think about.


	7. Negotiations

Derek wakes up, heart racing, to the sound of sirens from the street below. His mood is instantly soured. He misses being woken by the howl of a wolf or the sound of squabbling birds in the dawn. Being able to hear the quiet brush of the wind through the trees, or the faint sound of the trees stretching in the morning light.

His motions are automatic as he shuffles to the bathroom, splashes some water on his face and brushes his teeth. He hadn't slept much. Though he hadn't exactly been out late partying, he'd had trouble clearing his mind enough to sleep. The residual overstimulation from the party was one thing, but it wasn't what had really kept him awake. And when he finally had slept…  
He can't remember what exactly he'd been dreaming about, but he gets the impression of a desperate chase and amber eyes. He feels the residue of the dream like ribbons wrapped around him, tugging at him as he moves. Pulling him back. Calling him home like the howl of a pack searching for its wolves. Dreams of wolves aren't uncommon for him, though they don't usually pull at him this much. 

He tries to put it from his mind by falling into routine, tugging on some running shorts and a soft athletic tank-top. His shoes are vibrams, their perfectly-molded thin soles as close as he can get to running barefoot in the city. The sunglasses and the headphones are as much a shield between him and the outside world as they are a convenience, blocking sound and light.

Living in a loft means he's further than a typical apartment is from the parks, so most of his running route is in the city. Not like in the woods, where there isn't another human for miles, and nothing but the forest beneath his feet. Fortunately at this time of morning, when the sun is just touching the horizon, the streets are empty of anything but those delivery runs which prepare for the start of business.

He starts his route the same way every time, heading west away from the dawning sun and into the lingering darkness. He tunes out the endless rectangular shapes so unlike the curves of nature, listens to his heart beat and his breath rushing through his chest. He tries not to see anything more than necessary to keep him on his course. The first mile is along city blocks, but over the years he's found the little gaps in the concrete armor. The first is a turn off onto a runner's path alongside some disused train tracks. The path runs between long complexes of commercial and industrial buildings, uninterrupted by roads for a good ways. But it's little more than a dirt strip next to some rusty metal, no plants to soften the lines. Still, it's better than the city streets.  
After the path intersects the city street once more, he can go any number of ways. This time he crosses the street and takes the path that runs in a long loop through one of the small city parks. It's not his favorite, but he's hoping the greenery will be refreshing.

It's not.  
Almost right away he realizes it was a mistake. The trees annoy him, today more than usual. They're planted in neat lines and strapped and wrangled into perfect upright shapes, shrubs arranged artfully around them. None of them are more than a handful of years old. They are a pathetic facsimile of the trees he grew up with. Imitation nature.

He tries to focus on his running, on just freeing himself to the exercise, but his mind is filled with a litany of complaints. The grass is too manicured and the green is the wrong color. They're over-watering the flowers and under-watering the trees. They shouldn't use cedar wood chips around those type of plants, and because they repel the smaller animals. In disgust he cuts his route short, stopping dead in the path and glaring at the empty park, the air misting over his hot breath in the dawn light. For a few long breaths he stares at the sky. It's only going to get worse. He backs up a pace, and then turns, jogging back the way he came, heading for the rail-tracks path. In moments he's reached the entrance to the park again, more than ready to cross the street back the way he came.

His annoyance distracts him enough that he doesn't see the black car hurtling towards him until it's almost too late. There's no squeal of breaks. Only the glint of the dawn rays spilling over the top of a building and reflecting off the paint catches his attention in time for him to hurl himself into a desperate dive-roll across the rough edge of asphalt rippling along the train tracks.

And then there _is_ a squeal of tires, but it's as the car speeds away instead of braking. He rolls up, ear-buds tumbling from his head and scraping in the dirt as he rights himself. The car is gone before he can get a look at the license plate or even the make and model. He stands there for a long moment, chest heaving as he stares after the car, shocked.

He always checked before crossing a road. Had he just not seen it in his distraction?

The adrenaline and sudden interruption of his running pace makes him nauseous and he shakes his head, picking up his fallen sunglasses. He shoves the ear-buds in his pocket and finishes crossing the road and continues down the path by the rail-road tracks. A small spike of pain has him shrugging and glancing over his shoulder. There's dirt on his back, and next to the torn edge of his shirt, a bit of blood welling up from the wide edge of a scrape. He brushes at the dirt absently as he walks, fingers shaking slightly with all the adrenaline. His hand comes away red and he rubs it on his shirt, since the thing is already a loss. With another slow shake of his head he picks up an easy jog.  
By the time he gets home, he's miles past ready to get the hell out of the city. It's not even a question anymore. It's a decision made.

Though he jogs easily the whole way back, his adrenaline is still pulsing through his system. He focuses on his routine; does a few sets of push-ups and sit-ups. He showers. He sips his espresso at his bar counter. Even when he's finished all these things, it's still early yet. Too early.

So he goes to his racks, pulling down all the pieces he's considering for his new collection. Some are old, ones that weren't suited to the other pieces in the gallery opening the night before. Others are intentionally different, or looking forward towards new ideas. They're not ready yet, not by a long shot. And then there are all the paintings he hasn't painted yet. The call of blank canvas, in tall rolls of bare fabric, leaning against his racks. Of lengths of wood, made in pairs, with angled cuts on their ends, ready to be assembled and stretched over with canvas. Ready to give shape to the fabric to create the surface for his paint. There are a few sketches, a few ideas laid out on paper that get considered too as he stalks the art lineup.

For a long time he just paces the room, staring at the paintings, trying to feel the threads of inspiration that tangle around each painting and sometimes spread between them. He rubs his fingers in still-wet smears of oil paint on the edge of his easel, bringing them to his nose and scenting the paint, trying to center himself on the earthy tones.

But the sound of cars on the street below, the huge air conditioning units on the warehouse next door, the vibration of the various electronics in his space (minimal though they are), cut into his consciousness at every turn. He can't think. He can't feel anything but suffocation and longing.

She's not going to be happy. Not one bit. It's still early when he goes to his desk and picks up his phone, but the sooner he calls Erica, the sooner he can go.

"Hey," she says after a few rings. He didn't wake her after all; he can hear her voice echo slightly. Then he remembers that she had an appointment with Stiles to photograph the gallery today.

"Hey," he replies, trying not to think about the photographer. He'd already spent most of the night thinking about him. He takes a breath and then decides to go straight out with it. "So, I'm going to the cabin."

"Oh sure, I think your schedule frees up in about two week, I can nudge a few things around, get you the last half of the month free." she says amiably.

He grimaces and says, "I mean today. I'm going today." 

There's a short silence. "Derek," she says, voice carefully neutral. "I know gallery openings are stressful, but you already did the hard part. You can just leave the rest up to us and focus on painting. All the rest of it is easy stuff."

There are plenty of times when her firm and calm reminders can take the edge off the anxiety. But as he paces around the empty space of his loft he can't seem to loosen the arm curled around his waist or the tension in his shoulders.

"Erica. I'm sorry but I've got to go."

"Uh-uh. You know better than that Derek. We have this all worked out very carefully. You're important to this opening being a success."

"The opening is already a success," he counters.

"That's beside the point. We've got some flexibility, but you've got to keep to the general schedule if our next opening is to go as well." 

"Erica, I'm not talking about going on vacation. I'll be painting. And you know my best work is done out there. You know that's where I'm at my best."

She makes a sound of disagreement. "That's true, but we only just opened the gallery. You know the art sells better when you're there to sell it. Look, we can re-negotiate the number of party appearances you're scheduled to make. That'll give you some breathing room," she says, voice conciliatory. "Anyway, I don't have everything set up for you to head out right now." 

Usually these things are planned out in advance. Erica arranges to have his supplies shipped to the cabin so that they're ready when he gets there. His painting time isn't impacted at all, and he doesn't even have to worry about some of the details like food because she does it all. 

He can hear Stiles in the background, the faint echo of his voice bouncing around the gallery. The sudden and visceral longing he feels is one which he stamps down ruthlessly. It's not something he can deal with right now. And his emotions are too tangled on that subject at the moment. He feels the need to get out of the city, to get back to himself even more by the moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. There were times when he needed Erica to be firm with him and push him past his limits in order to make him a success. This was not one of them.

"Erica, no. I'm sorry, but I've made my decision. I just can’t work here right now. "

"Derek," she replies, voice firm enough that he knows she's not ready to back down yet. He sighs and pulls his trump card.

"Erica, I went for a run today and the park made me feel sick. And then I nearly got run down crossing an empty-,"

"What!" she hisses. "Are you-,"

"Fine, I'm fine," he interrupts. He feels a little guilty for using it when she sighs heavily and he can hear her pacing along the gallery floor along with the suddenly silenced voices in the background.

"God. Ok. Ok Derek. Give me a few hours to see what I can do."

"Thanks, Erica," he says quietly. She already sounds overwhelmed.

"Hey big guy, it's what I do," she says with a bit more of a resigned cheer to her voice. "Ok, but Derek, back to this nearly-getting-run-over thing. Do we need to file a police report?" she asks.

"No. I couldn't even get a make of car. I wouldn't have anything to report."

"Are you," she pauses for a moment and he hears her say off to the side of the phone "No he's fine. I'll tell you in a second."

"Isaac?" he asks.

"And Boyd," she replies. 

"Boyd's there?"

"Paperwork. Already sold quite a few, you know," she says, smirk apparent in her voice.

Derek doesn't reply. He doesn't ever really know what to say when his art does well. It seems like something that is happening to someone else. It's important to him that they do well, because the money is important for the pack. But personally? It's still surreal.

She hums quietly to herself. "Ok then. We'll get you on the road today," she repeats, mostly thinking aloud. He can hear her pacing the office. 

"Oh," she says abruptly. "Derek, what about Stiles? The story?" she asks.

Derek sighs. Yeah. He hasn't figured that part out yet. It's a problem. It's also part of why Erica was more worried than usual about him making good progress towards the next collection. Getting a feature like this in one of the biggest art magazines of the northwest was going to have a big impact on his work. They needed to have product ready to sell when the story hit. And there was no way the story was going to be good if Stiles didn't have the content he needed to work with. While Stiles might accommodate him if he could, Derek knows that's probably impossible given that the magazine has deadlines for such things. 

"What about… Can I send him over when he's done here?" Erica suggests. "I know you're stressed out, but you like him, right? He can maybe get what he needs for his story and meanwhile that gives me time to try and get everything ready for you to go. I mean, assuming it works for him."

Derek hesitates. Again there's a tangle of feelings about the question. The spike of anticipation that runs through him at the thought is not insignificant. And yet it doesn't rub the wrong way against his anxiety, against his need to escape. In fact...

"Yeah."

"Ok. I'll let you know what he says."

"Thanks Erica."

"Yep. Talk to you later," she says, and hangs up. It's not much later that he gets a text from her letting him know that Stiles will indeed be able to come by in an hour. 

 

When the knock sounds on his door forty-five minutes into that hour Derek frowns. He'd been grinding some coffee, ready to make some for Stiles since he was taking his personal time to come work on the story. And, well, maybe just because Derek knew he would like it. He hadn't gotten dressed yet, however. Clothes were one of the last things he dealt with when he was going to see people. Isaac had made a big deal out of selecting his wardrobe and had thrown out most of his casual clothes. Which didn't really bother him, honestly. He much preferred to wear little when working, usually finding clothing uncomfortable or distracting. But now there's not enough time to put on one of Isaac's outfits before answering the door. He doesn't want to leave Stiles hanging.

So he opens the door, and is once again greeted by the reflective surface of a camera lens. He sees the shutter snap and frowns even more fiercely. He feels surprisingly amused.

"You're early," is what comes out of his mouth. It's actually an explanation more than an accusation, but...

Stiles's bright amber eyes appear from behind the camera body, widening. He glances at Derek's bare chest, blinks twice, and then his eyes slip lower until they freeze at about Derek's abdomen and jerk back up to his face. His cheeks are flushing in a very gratifying way.

"Um."

He is wearing jeans at least. Derek turns and leaves the door open behind him. Of course, turning his back also lets him hide his smirk at the other man's reaction. He'll get a shirt in a minute. Probably.

"Woah, shit, what _happened_?" Stiles blurts behind him, voice peaking in alarm. Derek turns to look at him, but Stiles is following his back around, free hand coming up to touch the skin below the abrasion Derek had forgotten about. It was probably quite red since he'd done nothing more than scrub it roughly in the shower to remove the dirt. He's more aware of the cool brush of Stiles's palm against his back than the discomfort from the scrape.

"You should put some ointment on that. Jesus. Um. You should let me put some ointment on that. Because you probably can't reach it that well. Where's your first aid stuff?" Stiles asks, already shoving his camera back in his bag and striding towards the bathroom. 

Derek blinks after him and grudgingly says, "Bathroom cabinet."  
He shakes his head and marches back into the kitchenette. First things first. And espresso was always first. By the time he's finished grinding the beans, Stiles is back with the first aid kit. He lays out the ointment and a bandage with neat and practiced motions that have Derek eyeing him with a slight frown.

"I was a big klutz as a kid. Kinda shot up real fast in junior high and kept growing. Never really caught up to my limbs after that, you know? Between me and my buddy Scott, we had plenty of scrapes to treat over the years." 

Derek acquiesces to Stiles's energetic scooting motion, coming nearer to where he's perched on the stool with his arsenal of first aid supplies. 

"Got pretty good at cleaning them up since there wasn't anyone else to do it. Scott's mom worked a lot because they were on their own, so he and I just took care of it ourselves," he explains, making a gesture at Derek to turn.

So he turns his back on Stiles and tips his head down as the other man's hands brush over his skin. He can't fight the prickle of goosebumps that spreads over his skin at the touch. Though whether it's from the rarity of turning his back on someone like this, or the sensation of Stiles's touch on his body…  
With methodical passes of a sterilizing wipe, Stiles cleans the wound. It's a bit uncomfortable but nothing bad. Better this way, since Derek feels a few grains of dirt he couldn't get himself scrape free under Stiles's ministrations.

"It's not like it's too deep, but you might as well keep it from getting infected and scarring. I mean, unless you want to get scars. Which, I totally get, because, hey - scars are badass," he rambles as he spreads the cool gel onto it and tops it off with a clean flat bandage. Stiles's long fingers press the tape down into his skin firmly securing it. Then they hesitate.

After a long moment he feels those fingers tracing over the triadic curves of his tattoo, running from start to finish along the spirals. Just as abruptly those fingers jerk off his skin as Stiles clears his throat awkwardly.

"It's beautiful," he says.

Derek ducks his head awkwardly. He never knows what to say about these things. The story is too long to tell easily, and he can't seem to come up with anything glib to say, so he says, "You want some coffee?"

Stiles grins at him, shuffling the used materials into a wad and packaging up the kit again. "Mind-reader," he accuses playfully as he carries the kit away. Derek stifles the smirk edging onto his face as he turns and goes back to brewing the espresso.

"The view from Derek Hale's kitchen," Stiles muses, camera back out of his bag as he returns from the bathroom. Derek glances over his shoulder in time to see Stiles taking a shot of said kitchen, along with said artist. Stiles smirks wickedly before turning his lens out on the rest of the room.

"Is it ok if I start photographing the space?" he asks, fiddling with some of the settings on his camera.

"Sure," Derek replies, frowning out at the scattered paintings.

And he's off, just like that, snapping images left and right, prowling around Derek's territory, covering every inch. He takes shots Derek expects, and ones he approves of. He also takes angles that Derek wouldn't have thought of, and even ones he doesn't understand - then again, he doesn't know much about photography. But by the time the coffee's finished being spiced and brewed and Derek has it served in a little cup and saucer, Stiles is turning back as if on cue.

"Oh my god you are the best artist to work with ever. Your art is gorgeous, you're not an arrogant ass, and best of all, you make me coffee. Ooh biscotti!" Stiles exclaims with bright eyes as he nears the kitchenette once more.

Stiles lines up a shot of the treat. Derek realizes he should have expected as much by now and feels the smile tugging at his lips again. He can't help but watch as Stiles cradles the mug in his long fingers and breathes in the scent of the coffee. His eyebrows go up and he tilts his head. 

"Cardamom," Derek offers, shrugging as he takes his own cup.

"Wow," he says, then sips. "Wow," he repeats. 

Stiles makes eating the biscotti an art form, dipping it just the right amount and savoring each bite and sip of coffee with rapturous facial expressions. Derek can hardly keep his eyes off the photographer. And it isn't intentional, what Stiles does. He probably doesn't even realize that it's sexy. He licks the last bit of chocolate off his thumb and looks at Derek, who looks down at his coffee abruptly. Stiles shakes his head appreciatively as he drains the last of the coffee and then pulls his notebook out of his bag, laying it out on the counter. His fingers tap out a rapid tattoo on the cover.

"So, you're leaving town today, right? I was thinking I might try and ask you some interview questions since you'll be gone. I know they're a bit tedious, but the readers always love to see what the subject has to say. Don't worry, I picked better questions this time," he says, grinning.

Derek gives him a go-ahead nod, and Stiles flips open the pages. 

"Do you spend a lot of time out at the reserve?" Stiles begins.

And he's right. He has picked better questions this time. They're interesting questions, and ones he has answers to. Derek feels himself relaxing, though he's talking far more than he's used to doing comfortably. He leans against the counter in his kitchen and answers question after question, bouncing from one topic to the next without any apparent logic to Stiles's method. 

But eventually Stiles runs out of questions and flips through the pages of his notebook, gnawing on his lip as he considers his notes. Apparently satisfied, he looks up with a smile.

"I think that'll do it. Thanks," he says, fingers tapping idly on a page.

Derek squints at the notepad, which is filled with little symbols instead of words. 

"Police shorthand," Stiles explains, twisting the notebook so Derek can see. "It was kind of a father-son bonding thing. 

"The Sheriff," Derek says. Stiles grins at him in response. But then they're just kind of looking at each other, the grin slipping slightly on Stiles's face as he licks his lips on reflex. Derek has the urge to look away, but surprisingly, he also has the urge to keep looking, to catalogue the vivid features of the photographer's face. The upturned nose, the moles highlighting his cheekbones. And that mouth...

His pocket vibrates and chimes, shattering the moment. He sucks in a tight breath as he fishes out his phone from his pocket. It's another text from Erica, but this one is much less satisfactory.  
 _Holiday weekend._ it says, _rental places are all closed, so no truck. I'll keep looking but…_

The truck or SUV or whatever was a real problem. He needed the transportation to carry art supplies out to the countryside. There weren't exactly a lot of art supply stores out in the woods.

"Something wrong?" Stiles asks, brows quirking upward.

Derek scrubs a palm over his stubble and tips the phone back into his pocket.

"Logistics problems. Usually Erica has time to plan my trip out. But I more or less sprang it on her this morning. She just told me she's having trouble getting me a vehicle. I need something big enough to carry supplies," he says, gesturing at the tall rolls of canvas and stacks of framing wood in the corner.

"Oh yeah that would be a problem," Stiles muses, frowning. "What will you do if you can't get a car?"

Derek shrugs. "I'll just take my motorcycle. Make do with sketches or something until Erica can get me the supplies. It's not ideal, but…," Derek frowns down at his empty coffee cup. "I've got to get out of town. One way or another."

Stiles nods slowly, frowning with him. He taps the end of his pen against his notebook in the silence as Derek clears their cups away into the sink. There's not much else to say. They've already covered a lot of questions. There is, of course, the elephant in the room. The echo of the _are you seeing anyone?_ and what it might become. He doesn't know what to do on that front, however. As he moves back from the sink, coming to stand next to Stiles at the end of the island, all he knows is that the one thing that makes him want to stay in town is right there in front of him, looking up at him with those sparking eyes. Eyes which are clouding over under narrowed brows as they dart back and forth, thinking something over. Then his eyes are lighting up with an idea. 

"You could take my jeep," Stiles says suddenly. "Yeah that would be perfect. It's got pretty good space for stuff, you could probably fit all those supplies in there, well at least enough until you can get more. That would totally work."

Derek just stares at him completely nonplussed. 

"Seriously," Stiles says, eyes wide and honest.

"I couldn't do that," Derek says.

"Sure you could," Stiles responds, fishing around in his pocket and pulling out a key-ring, jangling it between them. Derek doesn't take them. He just kind of stares at them, torn between his options.

"I mean, come on, you _need_ something so you can take your gear with you, and you _need_ to get out of the city. I don't _need_ my jeep. Pretty simple, in my opinion. Here," he says, reaching for Derek's hand. And Derek is plenty surprised when he lets Stiles take his wrist and lift his palm, setting the weight of the keys in his hand. But he reaches up with his other hand to clamp down on Stiles's hand holding the keys, holding them steady in between their palms. It's just...

"You could come with me," he blurts, surprising himself again.

Where his fingers are against Stiles's wrist he can feel the way his pulse jumps at his words. He glances at Stiles's amber eyes and then away just as quickly, feeling his cheeks heating at the way Stiles is staring at him, mouth hanging open.

"Seriously?" Stiles says, eyes bright.

Derek clears his throat awkwardly, suddenly reminded of the insinuations Joel had made the night before about how Stiles was treated as a journalist. The fact that he _was_ interested on a personal level made things that much more complicated. "I just thought… you could photograph the reserve. My studio. If you wanted."

Stiles frowns momentarily at that but nods, smile coming back almost immediately. "That would be amazing. Really freaking amazing. Ok, I just… Yeah I'd just have to clear it with my boss."

He drops the keys onto the counter and snags his cell phone instead. "Let me just," he says and starts heading for the front door. "I'll just call him and work something out," he says over his shoulder as he steps through, phone dialing in his palm.

"Heeyyy…, Danny," he begins as the door closes behind him. 

Derek can still hear him out in the hallway, words flying out of his mouth a mile a minute. The walls aren't built for soundproofing, and he unabashedly stays where he is, eavesdropping. As he listens, Stiles goes from suggesting to wheedling to bargaining. 

"Look, I'll send it to you right now," he hears Stiles say, and there's a long pause. "There, it's sent. And I know it's not at all what you were planning for this issue, but if you want the Hale story to be as good as it should be, we're going to have to be a little flexible. Ok just would you _look_ at the damn file? I'm sending you a personal project here, my own hours. And now if I take my vacation days it won't kill the deadline or anything because I'll still be working on a story."

Derek scrubs his hand over his jaw again, torn between embarrassment that Stiles is sacrificing something on his behalf, and amusement at his methods as well as gratitude. It doesn't take long for Stiles to get his way, and when he does, he comes bursting back through the door, a wide grin on his face.

"It's a go," he says, though it's obvious. "When should we leave?" he asks.

Derek shrugs. "Any time really."

"Ok, I'll go home and pack a bag and be back in, like, two hours?" Stiles says, voice bright and eager. Derek nods in response and Stiles claps his hands, rubbing them together.

"This is going to be great," he says, then disappears out the door.

Derek is stunned to realize that he agrees.


	8. Tins

Stiles talks the entire way, barely pausing for breath. Or to listen to Derek's terse navigational directives, for that matter - though he multitasks perfectly, never missing a turn. It's part excitement, and part nerves. Ok, mostly 90% excitement. But that 10% nerves is definitely making itself known. Especially the way Derek looks sitting next to him, all dark jeans and boots and a slim thermal with sleeves rolled up to reveal taut forearms and the layer of dark hair that curved along with his muscles and hid the occasional smear of paint. His shoulders had been tense at the beginning of the journey, but before too long he'd relaxed and let Stiles's chatter wash over him, the occasional glimmer of a smile washing over his mouth. And craziest of all, looking like he belongs there. His mouth can't decide whether it wants to water or go completely dry with anticipation.

The back of his jeep is loaded down with big rolls of canvas and a bundle of wood which he assumed would be re-formed into frames some way or another. No blank already - what was it Derek had said? Stretched? None of those like he'd been expecting. Either way it's awesome. He's never gotten to see the whole process. Joel had never been much for manual labor. He'd always bought his pre-made.  
Beyond the canvas materials, there are only a few more things Derek had brought. A few glass bottles of oily fluid. Several boxes of long metal tubes of paint. A few new brushes.

Other than that, there's just his backpack and a small duffel bag visible in the back seat next to a larger army-surplus style duffel belonging to Derek. Below the seats is a long metal locker that he uses to stash his camera gear in to keep it protected and hidden, since jeeps weren't exactly known for being secure vehicles. Hadn't needed it until he'd moved to the city, but he was glad he had done it. He hadn't lost a camera yet and he was planning on keeping it that way.

"You know, I grew up in a small town actually. Me and Lydia both. It's nice to be out with all the trees and stuff. And no buildings blocking the horizon. I forget sometimes."

"I don't," comes the short reply.

"Hm?" Stiles asks, pleased at the participation in the conversation and hoping to encourage more.

"I don't forget. It's always…," Derek glances at him, shrugging self-consciously as he trails off, and Stiles nods.

"Yeah. I can see that. You grew up out here?" he asks, waving vaguely at the tree-line they are driving past.

Derek tilts his head back against the headrest, watching the trees go by in a blur. "My parents had a big place in the middle of nowhere. Not far from the reserve. We… basically ran wild in the woods."

"We?"

Derek looks hard out the window. "My brothers and sisters. My cousins and my aunts and uncles and my parents too. All of us."  
He pauses for a moment, then says, "they're all dead."

For once, Stiles is completely struck speechless. He knew from his reading up on the guy that he'd lost his parents as a teenager, but _all_ of them? His entire family? But there's a finality to his tone that makes Stiles believe that he's speaking nothing but the cold hard truth.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, because what else _could_ he say?

Derek gives a terse nod and casts his gaze back down the oncoming road. The silence in the jeep is loud until Derek sighs through his nose and turns a sharp green glance on Stiles.

"So. The Sheriff?" he asks, clearly changing the subject, though Stiles frowns at him in confusion.

"Mister Stilinski. You said that's the Sheriff," Derek explains.

Stiles grins. "Yeah. My dad's been the Sheriff ever since I could remember. He's good at it. Firm but fair, you know? You occasionally have to bend the rules just a pinch in a small town, work as part of the community. He does a good job with that. Though sometimes I swear he never turns it off. Being the Sheriff I mean. Still questions me like a witness, even at the dinner table."

He rambles about his dad, about Beacon Hills, about Scott and Alison. Eventually things feel more comfortable in the jeep again now that Stiles has pried his damn foot out of his mouth. The city and busy highway roads are long gone behind them.

Each time they take another turn that leads them further from the main freeways, the quieter Stiles becomes. The big brown "National Park" and state campground signs became more frequent on the side of the roads. The trees grow into taller and taller walls of green on either side of the road, forest coming in denser waves each curve they take.  
It is beautiful. Mesmerizing. More than once Stiles finds himself craning his neck forward to look out the window at the passing scenery. Sure Stiles has been out in the woods back home, and occasionally gone on camping trips with his dad. But at home, the road was never too far away even in the thickest woods. Here it seems like they are miles away from anything. Real forest. Of course, there were small towns dotting the forests, built on tourist attractions to the earthier pursuits. A few summer camps hidden in the trees.

Eventually the road comes along to a strip of a few buildings, mostly anchored around the central road with a few side streets jutting off.  
"Here," Derek says, nodding at the town, though Stiles has already noticed that all the signs and store names say "Two Falls," their destination village. Stiles slows as the pull in to the large gravel lot that's a sort of psuedo road between the buildings and the actual road. It probably also serves as a parking lot during busier times. Assuming times ever get busy.

"Pull in there," Derek says, pointing at the general store that sits next to the tiny one-pump gas station. The store, like most of the buildings, is finished completely in wood with evergreen trim. Stiles casts a questioning glance Derek's way, but does as he's directed. 

"I don't have any food supplies out at the cabin. At least, no fresh ones," Derek explains.

"Oh. Well then we are _definitely_ getting food," he says, killing the engine. "Please don't tell me you're like... a vegan or something."

The dark look Derek turns on him has Stiles grinning broadly. "You know, that's almost as good as a double-Winchester bitch-face. Almost."

Derek snorts, one thick eyebrow arching skyward and says, "What?"

"Nevermind," Stiles says and laughs as he yanks the keys out of the ignition and pockets them with a jangle. Derek shakes his head as he steps out of the jeep. The gravel crunches under his feet as he turns, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. There are a few people in the area, mostly what looks like tourists stopping at the diner, maybe a couple locals. But nobody is near enough to notice them in particular.

When Stiles fumbles around in the back of the jeep for a minute and then steps out and slings his camera bag over his neck Derek squints at him.

"What?" Stiles asks, hesitating, hand pausing on the strap over his chest.

Derek blinks and shakes his head, shrugging as a wry smile edges onto his face.

"It's a general store. Didn't think there'd be anything you'd want to photograph there."

"Well. There's you," Stiles points out with a suggestive flick of eyebrow before he can think the better of it. The look on Derek's face goes unreadable as he studies Stiles's countenance, which resolves into a slow smile. Really though… if the guy was going to invite him on a trip like this after Stiles had made his interest as clear as humanly possible while still maintaining at least some semblance of professionalism, he was just going to have to put up with a little flirting. 

To make good on his point he slides the camera from the bag and lines up a quick shot of Derek standing next to the jeep, giant trees and a long road in the background. This time though, when he glances at the preview image, Derek isn't glaring or looking defensive. He looks almost relaxed, the edge of his mouth turned up. It sends a funny flutter through the pit of Stiles's belly.

"Huh," Stiles murmurs to himself as he starts shuffling toward the shop, gravel crunching under his boots. He'd had to empty half his closet to find them, but his old hiking boots were still in perfectly good order. Made it pretty apparent that he hadn't been getting out of the city as much as he'd used to. Of course, Lydia wasn’t exactly into camping. Skiing, yes. But hiking out and sleeping rough…

Anyway, he's missed it. The afternoon light has to come filtered through the evergreen skyline, and the air is a bit thick with a faint taste of moisture. Like it might rain at some point, but probably not soon. The northwest. A place where locals have dozens of different words for rain and an internal barometer. Still, there is enough sun coming through the treeline to make it pleasantly warm. 

The little general store has a large bank of windows in front, and some little wooden flower boxes below them. In the window hangs a totem of feathers and leather and carved wood. 

The bell on the door jangles in a traditional fashion as they step inside. The air is slightly stale and the light mostly natural, filtering through small windows at the top of high ceilings and reflecting off particles in the air. There's the scent of wood and dust. It's small, but it is clearly there to service the locals for all their usual needs. Small stands of fresh fruits and vegetables line one wall. a section for fresh dairy and eggs and the like. A few racks of fridge and freezer cases contain the basics. There are lots of canned goods - in fact most of the product in the store is canned goods. 

Stiles can't resist snapping a shot of the store. Though only the one - some people get touchy about having their businesses photographed, and the guy behind the counter at the back of the store isn't exactly giving them a friendly smile. Well, not that he's really paying attention, but better safe than sorry.

Derek snags a basket and heads down the first aisle. Stiles meanders after him, snagging items along the way till he has an armful of snacks and various foods. He dumps the armful into the basket as Derek pulls open the fridge. Stiles barks a laugh at the two dozen eggs Derek loads in after them.

"Seriously?"

Derek looks at him warily and Stiles shrugs, lifting his hands up in a placating gesture. "I mean, whatever floats your boat. But haven't you ever heard of cholesterol?"

Derek shrugs. "Sure. But I eat oatmeal too."

Stiles screws up his face, mouth working. He flutters a hand in the air and eventually says, "Actually I can't fault that logic. I'm just used to helping my dad watch his levels, you know?" 

When Derek shrugs and looks away, Stiles winces internally, scrambling to think of another topic to bring up since, NO THEY'RE ALL DEAD kind-of comes to mind as an answer to his offhand question.

"So like, what's your favorite to make with eggs?" Stiles asks, holding his tongue about eating habits as Derek snags a few packs of what looks like locally cured bacon out of the fridge. And a few steaks wrapped in butcher-paper. And several packs of sausage. So definitely not a vegan, then.

Derek blinks at him frowning over the words like they might be a trick question. 

Stiles forges ahead, "I think my favorite has to be omelets. Partly because I could sneak in more veggies like tomatoes and onions and mushrooms and bell peppers - and occasionally zucchini and stuff. Really good though, you know? And like, everything you can do with an omelet, you can do with a quiche. And quiches, man. Quiches are freaking delish, and not nearly as hard as they seem. Because seriously, the day I discovered that? One of the best days of my life. Freaking savory pies. And that phrase "easy as pie" makes perfect sense now because pies really are easy! I make this one pie that's like literally just the crust, and a bag of mixed frozen berries, and a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg and cornstarch and boom! That's it! Pie!" he exclaims, hands flinging about in a gesture of emphasis. 

"And quiches you just dump everything in. Same easy thing. But other than that, I guess a good over-easy is nice. And it's hard to go wrong with your basic scramble. Lydia likes hers all fancy and eggs-benedict style - with _real_ hollandaise of course. She was not impressed with my makeshift butter and lemon juice sauce when I tried to make it for her once, which was seriously unfair because it is one of the better approximations if you ask me. Then again maybe it was my inadequate egg-poaching skills. I mean, seriously, how do you poach eggs the proper way? Insanely difficult. There are some things that Ms. Julia Childs lies about, ok? But I've worked out a method. I just sort-of microwave them and call it good. Because-," 

He pauses, realizing he's been rambling again. Derek glances at him inquisitively at the silence, as though he'd actually been listening. And then Stiles notices that he's been adding vegetables to the cart as Stiles named them. And another dozen eggs.

"I'm going to have to make you a quiche," he says impulsively. The shy smile that brushes on Derek's lips is a definite reward. "If you have a pie tin. Do you have a pie tin?"

Derek frowns and tilts his chin, thinking. "I don't know."

Stiles shakes his hands, thinking and glancing around the store. He veers off towards the area that looks like it might contain kitchen-wares. It's a tiny section. Derek drifts after him.

"What? How do they not have pie tins? Like. They have cake pans and casseroles and," he sighs, lifting the various objects as though one of them was hiding a pie plate. "Could make do with muffin tin," Stiles mutters to himself as he peruses the section. "Do you have a muffin tin?" he demands, whirling to face Derek, who has trailed after him.

Derek rolls his eyes, "I don't know."

Stiles laughs and flips the muffin pan in his hand before he settles the tin in the cart with a facetious sense of ceremony.

"Well, now you'll have a muffin tin. Not for muffins though. Mini-pies. Those are excellent. Like, personal single-size pies. Not that you can ever stop with one, though, am I right?" he says, grinning over at Derek. "On the other hand. Muffins."

Derek blinks at him, then smiles awkwardly as if he doesn't know what to say. 

Stiles makes a popping sound with his lips and spins away, waving a hand over his shoulder as he continues, gazing around the aisles.

"Anyway, you're gonna love it. If I can get all the ingredients… All right… Flour. Butter...Shortening… what else," he murmurs to himself and paces away. Derek follows him a while, then pauses at one of the shelves to compare some products while Stiles wanders ahead down the aisles, touching his fingertips to the edges of boxes and cans, occasionally snagging something here and there to pile into the crook of his arms - until he sees something that gives him pause. When Derek comes back around the aisle, he finds Stiles staring at the shelf agape.

"Folgers. That's… god, literally it's either Folgers or Mountain Crest. I'm not even sure which is worse."

Derek huffs a faint laugh at that. "Don't worry. I brought my own," Derek says. He finally grins at the rapturous look Stiles turns on him.

"You are a god amongst apes." 

"I was wondering when you'd notice," Derek quips back, eyebrows flicking up in a suggestive bump. 

Stiles's lips part on an 'O' of surprise while Derek's gaze drops abruptly and his cheeks redden slightly. He clears his throat and says, voice serious again, "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, sure," Stiles answers amiably, still rolling the flirtatious moment over in his mind as Derek nods and slips past him, leading over to the till. Stiles tightens his grip as the bag of flour threatens to roll out of his arms, balance precariously on the top of the stack as it is. Stabilized, he makes his way to the counter and tumbles his arm-load to the surface, laughing faintly at himself.

The man behind the counter is frowning at Derek, dark eyes looking beady as they stare out from his wrinkled face. It seems to Stiles to be more than a little bit extra-frowny, even considering the dude's obvious grumpy-old-man status. Neither man says anything as the clerk punches in the items in a steady clack of keys. When he announces the total, Stiles reaches for his wallet, flipping it open and saying, "Here, let me-,"

But Derek shakes his head, firmly laying out several bills on the counter. "I've got it."

Stiles frowns, jaw going stubborn. 

Derek sighs, "You're my guest."

The clerk eyes them both with an odd little look. Stiles gnaws on his lip, wallet in hand as he mulls over the idea of reminding Derek that he's here in part for business, that he's not a food critic looking for handouts to grease the wheels. But he likes the idea of being Derek's guest, so he hesitates, and the moment passes. The money is paid and change made so he puts his wallet away and helps the clerk start loading the groceries into bags. 

"But you are going to let me cook, right?" he asks, grinning as he swings a couple heavily loaded bags into his arms.

Derek snorts in reply, casting a wry glance at him as he grabs the remainder. "I was pretty much counting on it."

"You won't be disappointed. Unless you want something I don't know how to cook, which, to be fair, is a lot of stuff. But what I do know how to cook is pretty great I think," he says, rambling on about his favorite recipes. He casts another glance over his shoulder at the clerk as they leave. He's not surprised to see the dark eyes on them since he'd felt their weight on his back. He supposes not every town appreciates their local eccentric artist populations.

He shakes it off as he steps out into the fresh air and the door jangles behind them as it shuts. The sun is already lower than the tops of the trees. Surprised, Stiles wrangles the bags in his arms so he can glance at his watch. 

"Whoa, I guess that drive took longer than I thought. Is it much further to your place?" he asks, fishing the keys out of his pocket.

Derek shakes his head as they crunch across gravel over to the Jeep. "Just a few miles. Another mile on the main road and then about ten south after the turnoff."

Stiles nods absently but pauses, keys dangling from his fingers as his hand taps a faint pattern on the door of the jeep. Derek blinks at him, then follows his gaze over to the diner across the small road. 

"Friend of yours?" Stiles says, screwing up his face into a moue and drawing down his eyebrows as he looks back at the man glaring at them. Or rather, glaring at Derek. The way it sends a bad feeling up the back of Stiles's neck has him mentally cataloguing the guy's description, law-enforcement-style. 5'10". Medium build. Native American features. Dark short hair and dark eyes.

Derek just glares at the guy and strides the rest of the distance towards the passenger side of the jeep. "Come on," he says, voice curt.

Stiles hisses his breath through his nose and shakes his head, unlocking the door and tugging it open. He swings the bags of groceries into the back seat and then clambers over the seat to unlock the passenger door. As they finish loading into the jeep and Derek slides his seatbelt across his chest he leans forward to peer out the windshield and squints up at the sky. 

"It's going to rain tonight."

Stiles laughs, shaking his head as he puts the jeep in gear and rolls to a steady pace crunching over the gravel. When Derek casts a questioning glance at him Stiles shrugs, saying "No, hey, I believe you. It's just so very… earthy."

There's a brief pause as Derek purses his lips. He doesn't respond to Stiles's comment, but he takes another breath, poised on the edge of deciding to speak. 

"I like the rain," he says quietly.

Stiles glances over at him as they turn onto the road, the light filtering through the trees, casting faint patterns of light and shade over his skin. He smiles at the soft admission.

"Yeah, me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. Another slow chapter - sorry! But a little scene-setting and foreshadowing can be important. The next chapter should be a bit more exciting (you know. Getting the two of them completely alone in a cabin together) so stay tuned ;)


	9. Runs

He hasn't thought this through, he realizes as he unlocks the front door and steps into the tiny mud-room. The cabin's small. Well, not _actually_ small, because the square-footage isn't exactly tiny when you count the space allocated for the art studio. But other than the full bathroom, the rest of it has just enough room for a small living area around the fireplace, a kitchen nook opposite it, and a small wing bumping off the opposite side of the room. It has extra windows but is almost entirely taken up by the big bed behind a tall carved wooden screen that could be drawn for some privacy. 

Some, being the operative word.

There's no guest bedroom. And the couch isn't exactly good for sleeping on. What was he thinking inviting Stiles along? He resists the urge to growl at the part in the back of his mind that reminds him that _the bed is plenty big to share, and wasn't that what his subconscious was probably hoping for anyway_? Either way he ought to have warned Stiles more thoroughly. But the energetic young man is already brushing past him, oblivious to his embarrassment.

"Holy cow, this is great," Stiles says, striding into the living area to peek over into the studio area before turning towards the little kitchen. There are enough windows in the place that there's light despite the lack of power. In a faint clatter of cans and rustle of groceries he sets down his load and starts setting the items out. Derek follows him over and rests his bags down beside the others before stepping back into the bathroom to where the power box is. After a moment of fumbling in the dark he finds the latch and opens the door to find the familiar switches by feel, flipping the breakers back to their "on" position. 

When he steps out into the main room he leans across the counter to hit a couple switches. The overhead lamp comes on and the fridge hums to life, starting to cool itself back down. Though much of the cabin is rustic, the kitchen appliances are quiet and efficient. An investment in pursuit of minimal distraction.

"I've got some things to check on. I wasn't planning on coming back out for a while yet," he says by way of explanation as he pauses in the kitchen area, gesturing at the empty fridge which had been standing with its doors propped open to prevent mold-growth. 

"Mhmm," Stiles murmurs as he glances up at Derek and continues unloading the groceries like he's always lived here. 

Derek blinks at him, then scratches his forearm before turning abruptly and moving further into the studio area. He'd come here to escape the crowding of the city, to be alone again. It should feel strange having someone he barely knows standing in his kitchen, in his retreat. But it doesn't. 

That in itself feels strange. He props open some of the windows, letting the fresh fall air come in despite the slight chill of the setting sun and inclement weather. The cabin has a tendency to seem stuffy when the windows haven't been open for a while - quite possibly because he usually left them wide open when he was there, regardless of the weather.

"Hungry?" Stiles calls, voice breaking-into but not shattering the quiet. 

Derek feels loathe to raise his voice so he makes his way back to the front before answering quietly, "Some."

"Sandwiches okay?" Stiles asks, sticking his head in the fridge to poke around.

"Sure."

"Cool," Stiles murmurs and starts pulling things out of the fridge that he'd just put away. Derek stands there for a moment watching him. Then, thinking it's probably strange of him to stare, he glances around instead.

"I've still got…," he begins, gesturing at the cabin. Stiles straightens, hands full of perishables and glances at him to catch his movement. He looks suddenly and inexplicably embarrassed.

"Sure. Right, of course. I guess I don't know much about cabins. Is there anything I can help with?" he asks, still holding the food awkwardly as if torn between setting it out or putting it back.

"No, it's fine. Just a couple… you can just stay here," Derek offers, nodding vaguely at the living area.

"Ok. I will stay out of your way then. Uh, maybe when I'm done here I'll spend a little time jotting down some notes for the story while you... do stuff, if that's ok?"

"Sure. Sure," he says clearing his throat so the word comes out more clearly the second time. Stiles stares at him hesitantly as he stares back, timing off before he nods again and turns away. After a pause Stiles resumes his task in a rustle of bags rustle clatter of jars behind him.

His next steps are ones of long practice. He checks the interior rooms methodically. No leaks in the pipes, no water-stains or cracks in the walls. The fireplace is clean. No unwanted guests of any variety have moved in during his absence. The lights all work. 

Though the wood floors are old, they were well built and are something he takes care to maintain. They give only the slightest bit under his weight as he paces around, no creaking. Rugs woven by members of the local tribe cover the floor in some places. Near the couches, his desk. The studio is kept bare to avoid the potential for stains. Though the rugs are meant to be used, most of them were gifts to him - replacements of ones given to his family, given by members of the surrogate family that had kept his spirit alive during the most trying times in his life. They are meant to be used, but nevertheless he does not let his paint come anywhere near them. 

He hasn't been gone that long, so the inspection is mostly one of habit. When the interior checks out, he makes his way back outside and checks the perimeter of the cabin before the sun disappears entirely. It too is in fine form. The cedar shingles are only a few years old, and their faint but unmistakable scent is still there as he circles the cabin. The trees and brush remain a fire-safe distance from the building. The eaves-troughs are unbent and the rain-barrel's opening is clear. 

Nothing is amiss. Eventually he just stands there, breathing it in. There are no sounds of cars or distant conversations. No complex smells of too many people and too much concrete and tar. The trees are old, not stifled little sprouts borne of _landscaping_. The wind whispers in the trees, bringing the scents of the earth, promising rain. The air smells perfectly right. 

He's home.   
And amazingly, he's not alone this time. The unexpected thought gives him pause as he glances in through one of the windows to where he can see Stiles cutting sandwiches. The light inside is warm and amber from reflecting off the wood walls where he works. It is homey. Inviting.

As is his habit he finishes his inspection and makes his way to the side of the cabin. It's not really cold enough to make a fire more than an indulgence, but it seems right as stacks out a few split logs that have been drying in his firewood hutch. In the newly vacated space they leave behind he spends a few minutes rotating the others so they'll dry evenly. When that task is completed he feels sufficiently dutiful so he goes back to the cabin, lifting the stack of logs he'd initially prepared and bringing them with him as he comes back inside. The sound of him entering has Stiles glancing up from where he's now sitting on the couch.

"Oh that is awesome," Stiles murmurs, shoving his laptop over on the couch and turning to face Derek as he sets the wood in the rack next to the hearth. It's the work of just a minute or so to pull open the flue and to arrange a few logs and kindling and strike a light in the stone fireplace. He's built so many fires over the years he hardly has to think about it. The kindling catches light fast in little yellow flames, then builds to a steady glow as the heavier logs catch the fire. They burn a deeper orange, leaving a warm glow at the core and little licks of brighter flame up at the top. Derek glances over his shoulder at the sound of the camera shutter clicking, eyes catching on the glow of fire being reflected in the round lens pointed his direction. The shutter clicks again and then the lens lowers to reveal a sheepish-looking photographer.

"It's been a long time since I've seen a real wood fire like that," he offers in explanation as he re-caps the camera and stows it. 

"I thought it might be nice," Derek offers with an embarrassed shrug as he sets the spark-guard carefully across the front of the fire.

"Yeah, it's great," Stiles agrees, smiling warmly. He looks soft and warm in his stocking-feet and slightly too-large faded lacrosse sweatshirt. Inviting. And it's just the two of them, alone in his cabin. Derek offers a slight smile back but it gets caught on his awareness of the other man. The moment stretches just a hair too long before they both break gaze. 

"Sandwiches," Stiles adds, pointing out the obvious plate of neat little triangles sitting on the coffee-table. "Like, I didn't know if you like cheese or butter or... so. Yeah, there's like five different kinds. Um. But they should all be good. If you're not picky, which if you are is totally cool too. Unless you like. Hate bread. Or something. Because they all have bread."

Derek shakes his head and then takes one, receiving a grin for his efforts. 

"Thanks," he adds before the photographer turns back to his laptop. 

"Sure."

He doesn't sit just yet as he's still wearing his boots, but he munches on the sandwich as he makes his way back to the mud-room. It's the last thing he has to do before he can really relax, and it's a welcome feeling as he slips the upper laces and then toes off his old leather boots. Stiles's boots are already there, and he's oddly pleased to notice that they are slightly scuffed and worn, showing that they've actually been used. 

When he comes back into the room, Stiles is immersed in his laptop. He hesitates, gazing at the other man a moment with the crackling of the fire as the only soundtrack. Isaac would know exactly what to do in a situation like this. He'd have the right things to say, know just what would charm his attention and smooth the whole process. Hell. Any of his pack would know. But Derek doesn't. So, naturally, instead of joining him when Stiles turns a gently inquisitive and inviting look on him, he turns to pace the studio again. 

He lingers a few minutes, gazing at empty easels and the handful of blank canvases. Though the last of the sun's rays are still glinting in the distance and there are still a few useful hours left in the day he's not ready start painting. He doesn't have a clue how he's going to paint with Stiles around. Not that they'd set a time limit on this spur-of-the-moment escape. Maybe he'd leave after just a few days. The thought makes him realize that he hopes not, and that he desperately wants to know what it would be like to have Stiles there with him when he loses himself in the oils. It might be a disaster, but...

When he's prowled the cabin a second time and closed most of the windows again, he stops at the small desk that sits next to a low bookcase. The shelves are filled with old sketchbooks, some dating back to his youth. They are his comfort, his confidence and confidants. A few fresh ones are waiting on the desk. A fresh book seems appropriate so he takes one and a slim mechanical pencil before taking a slow breath and making his way back towards the hearth. He chooses his usual armchair which half faces the fire and half faces the couch where Stiles is sitting. 

He gets a smile as he sits, one that is as undemanding and warm as it is brief, giving him plenty of space. It's so easy he almost doesn't know what to do with it. Taking another sandwich he flips open the sketchpad, settling deeper into the chair. Although there is a thread of tension, an awareness of their aloneness together, it's an easy silence. Comfortable.

He taps the pencil against the page idly, then begins some slow smooth arcs, loosening his wrist and connecting to the paper. Getting the feel for the pencil connecting them. He draws random organic shapes, going with impulse as he often does when starting to sketch. With no particular goal in mind, no image to draw forth, it's sometimes freeing to let his fingers do the talking.

Stiles is immersed in his computer, fingers flying over quiet keys, words pouring out of his fingers and onto the screen apparently as quickly as they did his mouth. The corner of his lower lip gets caught between his teeth momentarily as his hands pause and he muses over a thought or wording. Then, just as abruptly, it's released to hang slightly loose as the words flow once more. This pattern repeats over and over, almost mesmerizing.

It's not really a surprise when the shapes on his page start cohering into human lines instead of the more customary canine ones, given that Stiles has been with him almost an entire day, but it gives him a moment of pause. Just a quick sketch, he decides. He's not really preparing ideas for his next collection yet anyway, just keeping in practice and settling in. 

But by the time he's warmed up and started on a third blank page he's hooked. And it's Stiles's face that is drawing him in. He has him in profile, focused on his task enough to silence him - a sharp contrast to the drive out there. But having him in steady position means there's time enough to notice the tiny laugh lines at his eyes, the pattern of moles on his skin and the way his hair can't seem to agree on which direction it is going at any moment. As always, he loses himself in the drawing. Without the sounds of the city around them to prick into his consciousness, hours, and page, go quickly by.

Eventually, though, he does catch Stiles yawning out of the corner of his eye, drawing him back into the present. The sun is long gone and the fire is burning slow and steady, more than half-gone. The faint rushing of branches in the wind can be heard overhead. He clears his throat because supposedly he is the host, if one were to use the term loosely.

"Tired?" he asks.

Stiles turns a heavy-lidded gaze on him, rolling his head back against the arm of the couch. "Mhmm. Getting there."   
It's followed by a big jaw-cracking yawn which he ends with a chuckle. "A.k.a. yes," he adds as he closes his laptop and slips it back into the bag.

Derek stands but pauses, awkwardly trying to figure out what to say about the sleeping arrangements. Thoughts of Stiles and his bed lead his mind fast in wildly inappropriate directions considering that they have a professional arrangement. On the other hand, pragmatics would also suggest they share the bed. However, he can't seem to muster the right framing now that the more inappropriate images are running rampant in his mind.

Stiles rises, not seeming to notice his indecision and meanders over towards the sleeping area, peering around the carved screen.   
"Wow, nice bed. Sure beats the other 'cabin bunks' I've slept on before."

Giving up Derek sighs. "Where should I put this?" he asks, lifting the bag Stiles had left on the couch. It wasn't the worst couch for sleeping he'd ever seen. Quite.

"Hmm?" he asks, looking distinctly confused, fingers drifting up to rub at the collar of his tee shirt. 

"I don't have a guest bed. I'll take the couch."

"Don't be ridiculous," Stiles says, shaking his head. "It's way too cold to sleep on the couch. We'll just share the bed. It's plenty big enough, even if you sleep like an octopus. I mean, assuming an octopus sleeps all spread out, which… they probably don't come to think of it. Damnit. Now I really want to know how they sleep. Whatever. Don't worry about it" 

When Derek hesitates Stiles rolls his eyes. 

"Seriously. I'm not going to maul you in your sleep," Stiles says and walks further away, hauling his duffel over to the bedroom area. Then, paired with a smirk, he adds "much," in an sotto-voce undertone.

That startles a laugh out of Derek. And why is he resisting? For a variety of reasons it's exactly what he wants. And if Stiles doesn't have a problem with it…

He follows Stiles over to the bed, then pauses, watching as the other man shuffles around, digging some clothes from his duffel and humming to himself. Derek slowly moves to the side of the bed where his small dresser sits and flicks on the bedside lamp. Then he sits on the bed and pulls open a dresser drawer - he's sure he has _something_ appropriate for sleeping in the presence of others. Somewhere.

As he rifles through the drawers, Stiles disappears back into the living area, doing something with his backpack. Derek watches him through the carved screen as he empties his pockets of a surprising number of gadgets and bits of paper, stacking them all in the bag before he makes his way towards the bathroom. Taking the opportunity to shuck off his jeans and socks, Derek pulls back the heavy comforter and slips into the bed. He doesn't like the feeling of the cloth between him and the sheets, but wearing any less would put him firmly in the danger zone.

When Stiles comes back from the bathroom he's wearing nothing but a loose-fitting tee and boxers, the rest of his clothes crumpled in a ball in his arms, which he shoves into the duffel. Devoid of his outer layers of clothing, Stiles confirms what Derek had suspected; he's made up almost entirely of well-toned muscles in lean lines. When Stiles smiles and slides into the bed next to him it has his heart rate climbing and his mouth going dry. 

"Ooh, nice," Stiles murmurs as he wiggles slightly, settling down on the soft mattress.

Derek swallows awkwardly and looks away. It's not just that Stiles is half-naked and climbing into bed with him, but also that no one has ever been in this bed but him. He hadn't really planned on anyone else _ever_ being in this bed, if he were honest - and yet there Stiles was, fitting easily in next to him.

 _As a friend_ , the voice in the back of his head admonishes. In pursuit of a story. He can't let himself forget those things. Instead he reminds himself to focus on the task at hand which is, presumably, to sleep. So despite the powerful urge to slide towards the unbelievably proximate body-heat, he turns away instead, reaching for the small lamp to turn it off. 

That, of course, just makes it worse. The darkness makes it that much easier to imagine sliding closer under the soft comforter and... There's a soft sigh as Stiles shifts again, arms coming up to fold behind his head. He can hear him breathing, forming a unique rhythm with the wind that's picking up against the cabin. As his eyes adjust he watches Stiles as he tips his head back gazes at the stars that can be seen through the slanted top panes of the windows over their heads, eyes reflecting the faint light like deep pools. The dark silhouettes of the trees dance in the wind, contrasting with the pinpricks of light beyond. The first droplets of rain start to fall, hitting the glass with barely audible slaps.

"Oh wow," Stiles whispers as the patter turns into a steady run of drops hitting the roof and tree branches just outside the big windows as the rain picks up. And for the moment, it's enough, Derek decides as he tunes in to the sounds. Because it's perfect and beautiful, and home.

 

When he wakes, it is to a heavy sense of peace and contentment. Silence.

Almost silence. 

There is the faint chatter of birds outside. And the sound of Stiles's breathing. The scent of rain and lemongrass and chai.  
As Derek blinks away the haze of sleep, he realizes that the space between them is gone. Stiles's face is across from his on the pillow, and he has both an arm and a leg thrown in a sprawl over Derek's body. Stiles's other hand is tucked against Derek's chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Derek's own hand is wrapped firmly around Stiles's waist, pressed against bare skin. 

Derek knows himself well enough not to be surprised at the fact that they'd ended up entangled. It doesn't change the fact that it is about to become seriously awkward because he's warm and soft and firm and...  
Slowly Derek draws his arm back from Stiles's waist and carefully tugs the other man's limbs back off his body. Stiles's mouth works in his sleep as Derek rolls him onto his back, and then his breathing changes as he starts to wake up. Slowly he stretches and then heaves a sigh as he gazes at his watch.

"Oh my god why is it so early?" Stiles moans pressing his elbow over his eyes. 

Derek squints at the window. "It's already dawn," he says, stating the obvious since the light is spilling through the big window and onto the bed and Stiles's skin where his arm is thrown over his face. His tee has been dragged up to his ribs exposing a swath of surprisingly well-toned abs and a fine trail of hair leading down into his boxers.

Derek looks away, swallowing.

"You don't have to wake up," he says, leaning over to the dresser. "I'm just going for a run."

Stiles heaves a sigh behind him as Derek pulls out a pair of running shorts. 

"I bet it's gorgeous out here."

"Mm," Derek replies absently, more focused on getting dressed before his body makes getting out of bed any more difficult.

"And I bet the air is really crisp and fresh at dawn."

"Yeah."

"And I bet you know the best routes too," Stiles grumbles, sounding more petulant by the word.

"Yep," he replies with a faint chuckle as he glances over his shoulder to see Stiles staring up at the ceiling with a pained and pouting look on his face. Then it abruptly resolves into something that can only be described as _wicked_. It's a torturous sight to behold when he's half-naked, sleep-soft, and still in arm's reach in Derek's bed. Derek looks away quickly, digging under the bed for his shoes. 

There's a rustle as Stiles throws back the comforter and gets up. "And of course, there's those running shorts..."

Derek glances up in confusion but finds Stiles's eyes are indeed on the pair of shorts in Derek's hand sitting on the bed between them. Stiles flicks an eyebrow at him and then stretches his arms up with a noisy yawn before he leans down to fish his own clothes out of his bag. 

Derek stares at the running shorts on the bed, feeling the tips of his ears go hot. But he can't help the smile that's edging onto his mouth because he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to get a look at Stiles in action, even if it would do nothing to help him clear his head. After all, if he'd managed to spend the night in bed with him and not cross the line, he'd be able to survive a look-but-don't-touch on a simple run. Probably.

They take quick turns in the bathroom getting dressed and then meet outside the front door. The sky is a dark and hazy gray, cloud layer still fairly thick from the previous night's rains, not yet burned away by the morning sun. The ground is damp, but not wet. The rain had stopped sometime in the middle of the night, giving the earth time to soak up its sustenance. Though the air is crisp, neither is wearing more than shorts and tees. They each do their own little warm-ups, loosening limbs and trying not to stare at each other (or at least not get caught) as they prepare to run.

"Three miles?" Derek asks tentatively, not knowing Stiles's running habits.

"Sure," Stiles replies, bouncing a few times up and down on his toes before shaking out his ankles. He rolls his shoulders, curves of trim muscle apparent under the cotton tee he has on which proudly proclaims his former membership on the Beacon Hills High Lacrosse team. Derek's not really sure he knows what lacrosse _is_ exactly, but given the very faded bloodstain at the collar of his tee, and at the hem, it's a heavier-hitting sport than he'd expected. That or Stiles wore the shirt a lot of dangerous places.

"God, this really is gorgeous," Stiles says, rocking his head side-to-side to loosen his neck as he turns in a slow circle, eyes on the high trees around them. "I'll have to get out my camera when we get back."

Derek laughs and smirks at him. "When we get back? You think you can go that long without it?"

Stiles makes a face but it doesn't hide the responding grin. "Oh ha-ha."

"Ready?" Derek asks.

"Lead the way," Stiles responds picking up an in-place jog step.

Derek shakes out his hands and then turns, stepping up into a jog and out onto a relatively well-worn path leading away from the cabin and deeper into the woods. He can hear the pace of Stiles's easy and light footfalls behind him. His own feet are nearly silent, his shoes conforming perfectly to the shape of his feet. 

He keeps the pace tightly reined in for the first quarter mile or so, letting them both warm up. Stiles draws even with him after a bit, matching his rhythm perfectly like he's used to running with others. Derek relaxes a little and lets Stiles push the pace slowly higher, still running in time. They're very nearly the same height, strides similarly long. It makes it easy to stay in sync, natural. 

The calls of birds follow them, raising a faint alarm at their passing or simply singing their morning songs. There's little wind and the calls carry over the air, unmasked by any other sounds. 

"I'm usually used to having music when I run, but this is beautiful," Stiles says, pausing every few words to breathe. 

"Me too," Derek offers and Stiles glances at him inquisitively. "Music, when I run. But not out here."

By unspoken agreement they let the silence fall again, listening as they pick up the pace a little more. The cool air is a rush as they push through it, suck it into their lungs and leave it behind them. 

Eventually the path fades away to little more than a line between plants. Derek slips ahead, again leading the way. They've come a mile; he knows the landmarks of the run well. Another half-mile ahead the route has a natural turning point, a large clearing left by a small forest-fire one summer several years ago. The trees would eventually grow back there, but for now it was a nice bowl of low leafy plants which had sprung up in their absence. It was beautiful, and it reminded him that beauty could happen in the wake of fire, as well as the fact that the wounds took time to heal. A long time. 

It gave him a little peace to go there now and again. It wasn't something he'd ever shared with anyone, and yet it hadn't even occurred to him to hesitate to bring Stiles there. Suddenly he feels nervous that Stiles won't... that he won't see it, won't understand - or perhaps worse, that he _will_.

But the time to worry about that is past, because that last half-mile has disappeared fast under their quick-stepping feet. As they enter the clearing, Derek steadies his breath, sucking in the cold fresh air, pace drifting down to a jog and then to a halt. Stiles matches him, setting his hands on his hips as he walks a few idle steps, breathing deep. 

Derek also paces idly, keeping his limbs moving as he tips his head back and stares up through the clearing of the trees to the lightening gray sky. He hears a faint wolf call in the distance and smiles. They'd almost been extinct around here. Now they were almost out of danger - enough that he was the one who might end up in danger if he wasn't careful.   
A second one answers - but it's much closer. A little too close, actually. He lowers his gaze, turning back.

Stiles has frozen at the sound of the second wolf's call, eyes bright and an awed smile spreading over his face. Derek can't resist a broad smile at the sight. It's a feeling he knows well. Stiles share it with him for a moment but then looks back out into the distance, eyes searching the mist for a wolf too distant to see. Derek blanches as Stiles sucks in a deep breath.

"No, wait," Derek blurts, reaching up a hand towards Stiles's mouth. But it's too late. He is already tipping back his head and letting loose his best impression of a wolf's howl.

"Damnit," Derek mutters, making a face over the edges of a grin that are tugging at him. It's not a bad howl. But also not a good idea. Too late now. Derek drops his now-useless hand, watching the vibrating pale column of the other man's throat as he howls, raw and breathy and primal. It has Derek swallowing hard, tempting him to join in. He shakes his head again.

Stiles laughs as he draws his face back down. "What?" he demands, still grinning as he looks back at Derek.

"Don't you know-,"

But then Stiles is shushing him with waggling hands and listening reverently as another wolf's howl answers back through the mist. Derek obliges him and listens with him, but shakes his head in exasperation when silence falls. It was close, and the short howl of the original wolf that comes after it is closer than it was before. He immediately starts back the way they'd come. 

"What?" Stiles calls again as Derek picks up his jogging pace once more, leaving him still standing in the clearing. 

He glances back over his shoulder but doesn't stop as he says, "That's how members of the pack locate each other."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, looking confused as he moves after him.

"You just told them there was a strange new wolf in their territory and where to find us."

"Cool," Stiles says, jogging back up to his side. He glances back at the clearing, then frowns at Derek. "Isn't that cool?"

"Very," Derek agrees, casting him a sardonic look. "You know, until they decide to hunt us anyway."

Stiles's eyes widen. "Oh. OH! Right. Leaving would be... Yeah leaving now sounds like a good plan."

Derek laughs. He doesn't miss the longing look Stiles casts back at the woods as they put a little distance between them and the wolves, setting a steady but relatively quick pace. The feel of the crisp air cooling his sweat and the give of the earth under his nearly-bare feet is absolutely wonderful. The sensation of someone else running next to him, breathing deep and muscles straining pushes the experience towards perfection.

It's a short enough run that before long the cabin is in sight again in the distance. The disappointment that he feels at the sight is tangled with the sense of homecoming he still experiences every time he sees it. 

And who knows? Maybe Stiles will come run with him again tomorrow. 

Stiles's hand darts out to smack his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. Stiles puts on a sudden burst of speed, leaping out ahead of Derek on the path in a loose-limbed spurt. "Last one back makes the coffee!" he shouts over his shoulder.

Derek gapes for a moment, then buckles down and picks up his pace too. The challenge may have a ridiculous wager, but it's a wager nonetheless. A few seconds later he's actually chasing hard after the other man. It's not that he minds the view from behind, but he's does mind if it's from _way_ behind, and Stiles is doing a pretty damn good job of leaving Derek in his dust. 

Just as he starts to break even, Stiles tips his head up, lengthening his stride on a breathy laugh. The terrain is relatively even this close to the cabin, so there's not as much to worry about obstacle-wise when they come up the narrow path. Derek takes deep, even breaths, pushing his pace up, but it's no use. He might be a regular runner, but it's clear that Stiles has had _training_. He can't keep up.

Stiles doesn't show any sign of stopping till he's right next to the nose of the jeep, where he pulls up sharply, half-turning so he can see Derek hard on his heels as he stumbles the last few feet to the cabin. He skids back against the wall, grinning wildly as his chest heaves. The pull of the chase drags Derek after him before he can think the better of it, keeping him running hard until some quick short-stepping brings him to a halt just a foot away from Stiles. The only thing keeping them from crashing against the wall are Derek's hands coming up to catch himself on either side of Stiles's sweat-streaked form, boxing him in. Their breaths are white vapor in the cool morning air as they stare at each other. The moment stretches far beyond casual as they both stand there, inches apart, breaths heaving. Stiles's grin fades as his eyes track over Derek's face, lips parted over his breaths. And then, slowly, his chin is tilting up ever so slightly in invitation.

"You win," Derek says, voice rough with the run and with need.

Stiles's eyes widen as he swallows, head lifting an inch off the cedar towards him.

It's too much, a terrible mistake having Stiles in his home territory like this. The need to pin Stiles back against the wall and take what he wants is overwhelming. Damn the story, he thinks, and damn professionalism. But the thought drags with it the reminder of Coolidge's voice warning him to _do a_ really _good job sucking Stiles's dick_. It's like a bucket of cold water to his face - and to lower reaches of his body which were reacting more than favorably to the whole kissing-Stiles-thing. It has Derek jerking back unsteadily. He stares at the dirt for a moment, trying to find his equilibrium. But he gives up as it's long gone.

 

"Coffee it is," he says, voice sounding strange even to his own ears as he turns away and strides to the front door.


	10. Pigments

The man is trying to kill him, he decides as he scrubs down quickly in the shower. Trying to flat out kill him dead with teasing, tantalizing proximity and whiplash-inducing course-changes. He really doesn't know how much more of it he can take.

Unfortunately there is no mistaking the fact that Derek _had_ pulled away, even knowing that Stiles had been willing - well at least he assumes Derek had known. He doesn't think he could get more obvious without literally throwing himself at the guy. He had to have known Stiles probably would have done anything he'd wanted right then, even to the point of forgetting the beautiful plush bed just a room away and dropping to his knees right then and there. You know, going _au naturale_. Getting one with the wild side. Making - 

He shakes his head at himself, smiling sadly. Doesn't matter. Point is, Derek's made his decision and Stiles has to respect that. Derek had turned away, and as much as Stiles is willing to flirt his ass off, there's no way he's going to be the one to cross the barrier, not and make what Joel had said to Derek seem like the truth. Hell, even if Derek _had_ kissed him, there was a good chance he would have been the one to put on the breaks, just for that reason. He has more respect for himself than to leverage his position just for some hot sex. He has more respect for Derek than that.

But oh god it would be _so_ hot. If he'd thought Derek had been attractive so far, it was nothing compared to what he'd felt out there, long lines of muscle all free and hot and sweaty, racing each other. He groans under his breath as he splashes some water over his still-flushed cheeks. 

Sprinting back to the cabin had been a terrible idea. And really, if he were honest with himself, he had totally known better. He'd experienced the consequences of hard one-on-one runs with an attractive other before. It had led to some hot-but-awkward teenage makeout sessions with Danny back home before they'd both figured out they really weren't into each other and really should stop running together. And years later when he'd had his first apartment it had been great fun to go running with Evie in the evenings, getting back to the building breathless and so desperate they had more than once not even made it up to the apartment before cutting loose. She'd been crazy like that. Which. No, thinking of crazy naked Evie is not helping the whole… not being inappropriate thing. The hot water spilling over his skin isn't helping either, a rush of liquid touch over already-heightened senses and… regions.

Ok but really, it's tough deciding whether he'll be better served by putting a damper on things and ignoring it entirely or by having a quick jerk-off session in the shower… which… by the time he's actually _finished_ the thought is really a moot point anyway since just the consideration is enough to bring his semi to full-hard-on status. 

He stifles a self-deprecating laugh. Like it was ever even a question? He's pretty sure the sight of Derek Hale, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, with wild eyes and parted lips and pinning him to the wall is enough to make anyone desperate to touch themselves. His hand skims down over the taut skin of his belly to brush along the top of his length in a slow stroke.

And it's _so_ not cool, jerking off about a guy who is like ten feet away but damnit, the scent of the borrowed bodywash filling the curtained oval is perfect fuel for fantasy. Perhaps of Derek changing his mind and climbing into the shower with Stiles, bringing that heady earthy scent with him. Along with the salty tang of fresh sweat still cooling on his body. Slicking the hot water over his skin, then growling at the inadequacy of it and pulling Stiles tight to him so that they could both share the heat as he scrubbed his hands through the soap over Stiles's body…

Would he slide his hands lower as he licked the back of Stiles's ear, dick bumping between Stiles's legs as he pressed tight? His hand sliding over himself is a paltry substitute for the sensation that rubbing themselves together would bring but it's plenty tantalizing enough to have him biting his lips against a moan. Derek, with the dark hair on his chest slickened down with the water and Stiles's fingers sliding over it, all the way down. He'd looked so raw and primal after that run. Would he look like that when Stiles wrapped his hands around him, his mouth? He shudders at the thought. Would it be rough and desperate, or taut and slow and tantalizing. He can't even decide which would be better. Both are enough to have him twisting his fingers hard over himself in fast little strokes that drag him quickly to the edge. It's not long before he grips the windowsill hard through the shower-curtain as his body stiffens in response to his release, footing almost unsteady as he takes a few ragged, stifled breaths. 

The water is suddenly too hot on his skin. He rinses away the streaks on the shower curtain and then gives himself one last wipe-down before turning off the water. He shakes his head at himself in the mirror. If he'd thought _last_ night had been difficult… he sighs as he quickly towels himself dry and tugs on the clean clothes he'd brought in with him. 

Derek doesn't quite meet his eyes when he comes out of the bathroom. He's still wearing his running clothes, though the sweat has dried. There's a fire in the fireplace, but he's just standing at the kitchen counter.

"Coffee," he says, pointing at the steaming cup.

"Thanks," Stiles says faintly, drifting closer as Derek ducks his head in a nod. He sets his own cup down silently and heads for the dresser, grabbing some clothes and heading into the bathroom. 

Stiles blanches at the distant mannerisms. He hadn't said anything to… oh god, had he moaned aloud? He hadn't thought so, but… god he had really been into that shower fantasy. But, no, he doesn't think he had. On the other hand maybe Derek is just embarrassed about the whole… whatever it was that had happened after the run.

He waits, fiddling with the cup, pushing it around in a circle on the saucer. The coffee is good but he's too distracted to really enjoy it, though he gives it his best shot. Maybe he should cook some breakfast? But is seems presumptuous now, despite the interested response Derek had displayed when he'd mentioned it originally at the store.

As he sits and sips his coffee, Stiles resolves to put it behind them. Which, ok, probably sounds a lot easier and more plausible at the moment since he's all recently-satisfied or whatever. Things might get harder when they were back in that glorious bed together - _harder_ most definitely being the operative word. He'd had one hell of a time keeping his hands to himself when Derek had turned out the light and slid towards him as he'd settled in. Being sex-positive was all fine and good until you were sharing a bed with a guy you couldn't touch. Sometimes practice with being inhibited might come in handy. Not that he'd actually wish that on anyone.

Then he'd spent half the night dreaming fitfully about the many (plausible and implausible) scenarios that would have them rolling together under the sheets. It was amazing he hadn't woken up with a raging hard-on and/or wrapped around Derek's gorgeous body.

As much as he totally wants in Derek's pants, he also wants… more. To protect their budding friendship. To be someone Derek lets his guard down around, like he had at that café. To see what Derek looks like when he paints. To write the best damn story he can, and keep his integrity intact while doing it. 

"I can do this," he murmurs against the lip of his mug. But when Derek comes back out of the bathroom wearing a faded maroon henley and grey jeans and a guarded expression, he wonders if it might already be too late. He smiles but is met with an unreadable face in response. The air between them is distinctly uncomfortable, as Derek pushes a hand through his damp hair. 

"I was thinking about making some breakfast, maybe?"

Derek frowns at him, then looks down at his half-finished cup of coffee. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. Stiles leans back against the counter. Back to nonverbals then.

He puts an easy smile on his face. "I'll scramble up some eggs."

Derek looks at him, green eyes intent. His lips part as though he wants to say something but after a long pause he frowns and nods brusquely, turning away. He goes over to the fireplace, crouching in front of it.

Stiles bites back a sigh and shrugs it off, smiling again at nothing as he sets his cup in the sink. He pokes around under the cabinet, finding a lone skillet. The fridge also gets a perusal as he starts laying out ingredients. The familiar task of preparing a meal is centering, and before long he's humming to himself as he shoves his sleeves up and washes his hands. 

He hears soft footfalls behind him at he sets the gas stove alight. He glances back, offering a smile to Derek. It doesn't get returned. He doesn't _really_ expect it to. Derek's not the most likely person to smile that he's ever met. As Stiles whisks the eggs in a bowl, Derek stands at the counter, lifting his previously abandoned coffee cup. He sips it in silence then sets it down. If it hadn't been for the morning's events, Stiles would have thought it would be almost companionable this way, even with the silence.  
Derek sighs heavily then lifts a faintly wary face to him.

"Do you… is it all right if I unload your jeep?" Derek asks, thumb bumping against the ceramic between his hands, causing it to rattle faintly in its saucer.

"Yeah, of course," Stiles says, kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner. The guy must think he's like, holding his art supplies hostage or something.

"Let me just," he sets the butter back down that he had been about to put on the pan and turns, trying to orient himself in the direction of wherever he had left his keys. "I'll come help," he offers. "once I -"

"I've got it," Derek interrupts firmly, jerking Stiles to a halt.

Stiles blows out his lips and drops his hands, gazing at nothing in particular as he tries to wrangle his emotions back into simplicity. It's not exactly easy. But he'll manage. "Sure," he says after a moment, voice neutral. "I'll just find my keys."

But Derek hesitates. "Unless you wanted to," he relents. Stiles looks over at him, not wanting to accept if it's forced politeness, but although there's a guardedness to Derek's expression, there's a thread of vulnerability and interest.

Stiles cracks a slow grin at him. "Totally! I'm actually really interested in the whole setup, you know. I've never seen it done before. And I only got a glance at the stuff when we packed it," he says, resuming his search for his keys. His hands brush over his camera bag but he reluctantly leaves it where it is as he leans down to grab his backpack. As much as he wants to try and capture the process with his camera, he thinks that would probably be pushing the limits of the fragile accord still forming between them. At least at the moment.

"I only know a little about oil painting, so I'm looking forward to learning more. I had no idea it involved so much stuff. Like, I kind-of thought paint was just… like paint. But you had all these bottles and tubes and stuff I've never seen before so I'd totally love to get another look at it."

Derek pauses near the door, looking at him with a furrowed brow as he returns with the keys. He sees Derek's eyes track over to the camera bag still sitting on the couch. His frown grows softer after a moment and he flicks a hesitant glance at Stiles, finger flexing on the wooden doorframe.

"I could… explain it all to you. And you can photograph it. If you want."

"Really?" Stiles says before he can rein it in and offer a professional veneer. Derek just looks at him. His eyebrow lift is practically the epitome of 'If I didn't mean it I wouldn't have said it'.

"Great," Stiles breathes, spinning back to grab his camera. He hears Derek pace away through the interior door as he fiddles with the bag, and he hurries to get his camera out and chase after Derek. But he's still in the mud-room, of course, putting on his boots. Stiles has to grab the doorframe hard to stop from ramming into him, almost tripping anyway though he curls his body sharply to protect the camera from the impact, hitting the wall hard with his shoulder instead.

Derek pauses, one foot mid-air over a boot to look at him in surprise and Stiles feels his cheeks go hot. Real smooth Stilinski… 

"Right. Boots," he says, looping the strap of the camera over his neck instead of around his forearm so he can shove his feet into the shoes as well. He does not check out Derek's ass as he bends over to tighten his laces. He feels proud of himself for about 0.68 seconds before he feels disappointed at the missed opportunity. But Derek's already heading out so he quickly tightens his own laces and pushes the door open to go after him. 

The morning light is still gorgeous. Golden now instead of misty, some of the moisture in the air having burned off. He unlocks the jeep and pulls the back open carefully.

Derek is already reaching for the 2" x 1" boards, muscles flexing under the thin shirt. Stiles steps back, slipping the lens cap off and clicking a few shots to test the light. Totally not for the muscles. Nope.

He fiddles with the settings a bit, then moves back a ways to line up a shot of Derek and the cabin and jeep with the boards he was stacking over one shoulder. It was pretty ridiculous the way he kept stacking them. Stiles wouldn't have ever grabbed so many - not necessarily because of the weight (though it was probably getting pretty hefty), but because of the klutz-out factor. That was just an accident waiting to happen. But Derek seems perfectly content to grab the whole stack, shrugging his shoulder a little to settle it as he steps back from the jeep. 

Stiles can't resist the photos. He manages not to make a comment about calendar photos. Barely. Okay maybe he has to physically bite his tongue to stop it. But that's okay. 

"Taking them to the studio?" he asks, and receives a brief nod in response. He hurries ahead as Derek turns carefully, pulling the doors open so that Derek can pass unheeded. The grace with which he moves is still enthralling to Stiles, even after having seen him on the run that morning. Not that he watches him walk all the way to the studio from the door.

Yeah. He's not really doing very well with cooling his jets. He rolls his eyes at himself and leaves Derek to go settle them wherever they're intended destination is and returns to the jeep, muttering, "Focus."

So he does. With his camera. He pulls the first box of art supplies to the back of the jeep, angling it so that the sun's rays catch the glass jars filled with a variety of thick oils and liquids of varying shades of brown and gold.

He sets his camera down to hang from its strap around his neck, considering. There aren't any handy tables or stumps nearby out in the sun. He crouches down, bringing up the lens again, trying to capture the way the light seems to curl and refract through the liquids. It's so gorgeous, he's determined to get it, to catch the thing his eyes are seeing and his brain is filtering for him. But the shadows the jeep casts are too rectangular and he sighs in annoyance. He needs something organic, but the ground is too low a contrast, too rectangular in its own way. He gnaws on his lip as he thinks, making a low noise of thinking and frustration in his throat.

"Problem?" Derek asks, appearing at his side abruptly. Stiles tries, but fails not to topple over from his precarious crouch.

He laughs, pushing his finger down on the shutter button on his camera where it had automatically gone as he'd fallen. The angle is interesting, looking up at a perplexed-looking Derek Hale. Another shot that will probably never see the light of day beyond Stiles's amused perusals of his infinite photographs, but still…

"You're not a rectangle!" Stiles says in delighted realization.

Derek blinks at him.

"Here, here," Stiles says, scrambling to his feet one-armed and moving back to the jeep.

"Hold that crate," he says. Derek frowns at him, looking like he's wondering if there's some sort of trick involved. Or maybe whether Stiles has lost his mind. But after a moment obliges, stepping forward to lift the little crate.

"Okay come here," he says, laying a guiding hand on Derek's forearm, pulling him away from the jeep and over to the grass, lining him up so that the sun is gleaming down over his chest and there's nothing but forest at his back. Stiles backs away, bringing his lens up with a grin.

"Perfect," he says, snapping a few quick test shots. 

He loves the way the light catches through the liquids and angles over Derek's forearms wrapped around the crate, and the way his shirt and jeans contrast with the green surroundings and yet are still earthy-enough tones to be part of the scene. He pumps the F-stop way up, then drops it way down. He can't decide whether he likes the version with the blurred background better or not, but that's always something he can decide later. 

"Linseed oil," Derek says suddenly and Stiles jerks his head up from the camera to look at him.

He's curling one of his broad hands up to touch one of the bottles, the pure, bright gold oil. "It's… it's the base I use the most."

"Base?" Stiles asks encouragingly.

"It's used to thin out the pigments and make them paintable, blendable. Gives them depth and helps with layering."

Stiles smiles at him. He seems to be relaxing in the warm morning light talking about something he knows well. That's more like it, more like how Stiles usually is at his job, putting people at ease. Not that there was anything usual about this particular case. Or that he thought it was really anything _he_ was doing to put Derek at ease. More likely the surroundings, beautiful and peaceful as they were.

"That one's the galkyd," Derek continues, pointing at a bottle that's a rich earthy amber tone. "It dries a little faster and sometimes is a little smoother for certain pigments."

Stiles nods as he continues photographing, this time pulling all of Derek into the frame, capturing him in his teaching mode as he points out several other oils and varnishes. 

"Do you, like, use them all at once? Or…,"

Derek shakes his head. "Usually just one per layer. And often only one per painting, if it's a fast one. Not always though. There are some who would say there are hard and fast rules about how the mediums should be used but…," he trails off, lifting an eloquent shoulder in a shrug.

"Yeah I've never much cared for those sorts of rules either," Stiles says with a grin as he re-caps his camera and tips his head towards the cabin. "Most of my professors _hated_ me for it though."

"Mine too," Derek says, flashing him a wry smile as he walks beside him. Stiles stops at the jeep to grab the other crate - full of tubes and boxes and little nondescript jars, and then follows Derek into the house. They set their loads down on the studio work-table, then go back to the jeep for the last item. Stiles leaves his camera for this one. He knows the roll of canvas is heavy since he'd helped Derek carry it down to the jeep in the first place.

With a little jostling and only one or two stumbles on Stiles's part, they wrestle it into the cabin. It gets carried to the back of the studio and set up on a spindle set up apparently just for that purpose. There are no other bits of blank canvas, other than a couple blank canvases that have already been stretched and are sitting in the corner. He really had been out of supplies. Stiles feels a little pleased with himself for, all else aside, being able to do a good deed and bring the guy supplies. Really, an artist should never be lacking in canvas. That was just wrong.

Stiles flexes his fingers against the red creases from the heavy cylinder and then dusts his hands off. Then he goes to retrieve his camera as Derek sets about opening all the windows in the studio. The quiet sounds of the forest fill the cabin, as does the fresh air. He hadn't even noticed the cabin had grown a bit dusty-smelling till they'd come back in from outside. Till the fresh air blows in through the big windows.

The windows really are the crowning glory of the studio area. Large sky-lights. Big panes of unbroken glass which open wide, making it seem like the forest is part of the room. It practically is, with them opened like that. It's great. He thinks he might have to catch it during sunset to get the full glory. Maybe. He takes a few shots anyway, knowing he'll have to check them out on his computer and plan out the best angles.

But Derek's still busy in the studio, and he doesn't want to miss any of the process. His curiosity, as well as his need to know as much as possible for the story, have him watching carefully. As Stiles returns, Derek pulls the cover off a section of the workspace and reveals a small table-saw, one that allows angled cuts with a precise swivel mechanism. 

"So why do you build your own frames? I mean, transportation is one factor, but I guess once they're stretched it's a problem anyway so it doesn't seem like a good enough reason to go through all this trouble," he says, waving at the work-bench.

Derek thinks for a moment then shrugs as he takes a piece of wood and holds it out in front of him, eyeing down the length of it.

"Quality control. And being able to make the exact dimensions and shapes I want," he says, marking one side of it with a pencil. He does the same with a second length of wood, gazing down its length with one eye squinting at it.

"What are you doing now?" Stiles asks as he nears and Derek sets the wood down on the table.

"Checking for the curvature of the wood. Depending on the canvas I'm stretching most-times I want the crown on the outside of the frame for more tension."

His hands move when he talks about his art, about the construction of the wood. It's a change from the more cautious way he holds himself usually. He glances at Stiles.

"How big should we make it?" he asks, sliding the wood out on the table in front of where Stiles is leaning.

"We?" Stiles asks, fingers drifting over the wood. His fingers drift close to Derek's accidentally and he curls them tight, rapping his knuckles against the wood before drawing his hand back.

"Yeah… thought I might show you how… let you try out the paints," he replies, the corner of his mouth turning up. "Unless you…"

Stiles flings out a hand to interrupt him. "No! That's great. Uh. Like. I don't know. What's a good size?"

Derek shrugs. "Anything works."

"Okay careful with that 'anything' word. I'll get ideas of like twenty-foot behemoths," Stiles jokes, earning himself a blinking look and then a faint smile. He makes a face, "I dunno… three feet? A square?"

Derek nods and gets a small measuring tape, stretching out the requisite three feet along the strip of wood, marking it into loosely just over 3' sections.

"You only need a couple of tools to easily construct a basic frame," he says as he angles the table saw to a 90-degree orientation. He makes the rough cuts on the wood, then stacks them together. He angles the saw back to 45-degrees and cuts the wood all in a group, leaving them equally long. 

He hands them to Stiles, then points to a power drill and a box of screws further down on the work-table.

"There are fancier ways of building a frame, but I usually don't bother unless it's a gift. For these we can just match up the angles and slot a screw in straight through the join."

"Ooh, okay I've totally got this part. Screwing random things is like my speci…," he falters, biting his lips and eyes widening as he turns to stare at the drill, picking it up. "Um, that sentence went horribly wrong. What I meant is, when my dad and I did a re-model project together, my job was to be in charge of the drill, since me and hammers don't get along very well." He waggles his fingers. "But screws! Yep. Those were my territory," he says, buzzing the power screw driver a couple of times to test the batteries.

When he glances up, Derek is still looking at him somewhat askance, but he'll prove him wrong. He knows it. Derek eyes him for a minute while he lines up the joints and positions the first few screws, but after a minute or two he apparently decides Stiles isn't going to mortally wound anyone. So he gets out another piece of wood and makes the same measurements and rough cuts before creating neat angles. 

By the time he's done, Stiles has finished screwing in the first frame, so Derek passes the wood off to him and takes the constructed frame in turn. He measures out a few feet of canvas, then slices the top of the bolt with his pocket knife. Stiles watches in surprise when he grips the two sides of the notch and simply tears the fabric straight down the weave.

"Wow," he says, realizing that it's stayed perfectly on its line. Cutting it would have been much more uneven. He pauses in his screwing of the second frame to snap a few shots of Derek as he lays the canvas down on the floorboards and settles the frame over it.

"Then you literally stretch the canvas," Derek says, pulling the edge of the fabric tight and punching a few staples down through it into the wood before he angles the frame up and hauls on the opposite side of the canvas. His forearms are taut with bunching muscle as he pulls, knuckles scraping against the rough fabric with the tension of it while he works to punch in the staples. He makes quick work of it, but even his long practice doesn't make it look particularly easy.

So Stiles balks a little when Derek presents him with the finished product and then says, "Your turn."

But Stiles is never one to turn down a challenge, so he finishes screwing the frame together while Derek sets up another easel in the middle of the work-room and sets the finished canvas up on it. Then he returns to help Stiles lay out the frame and get the canvas. Stiles is plenty eager to tear the fabric, since that had seemed pretty awesome. Which it was. It only takes a minute or two for them to stretch the fabric over the frame and staple it down. And Stiles manages not to staple his hand even once.

He taps his fingers against the taut fabric, grinning at the faint sound it makes.

"We'll still need to prime them," Derek explains as he gets out a gallon jug of paint that says Gesso on it. Stiles takes the second frame over to the easel and sets up while Derek opens the can and gets out two large brushes. Stiles gets the picture pretty quickly, despite Derek's general lack of words, and after a few minutes they're sweeping the white paint over the canvases, coating them thoroughly and evenly. It's all going fine until Stiles has a sudden realization.

"Oh shit!" Stiles blurts, spinning abruptly and flinging a blob of white paint on accident off the end of his brush. It lands on Derek's arm, and the man pauses in his painting and turns a sharply arching eyebrow on it. "Oh… shit," Stiles repeats, much more embarrassed this time. "Sorry."

Derek glances at him, an amused look spreading on his face before he just slides his arm against the edge of the canvas and smooths it out with his brush. 

"No, no but seriously. I forgot I was cooking breakfast," he says, looking around for somewhere to set his paintbrush. "Like, how do you forget breakfast? Seriously I don’t even understand how my stomach hasn't staged a rebellion already." 

Derek just extends his hand and takes it from him, wiping off the excess paint onto the canvas and then reaches down to drop it in a small bucket Stiles hadn't noticed before.

"Okay, yes. I will take that as a sign that you also desire breakfast," Stiles says, wiggling his feet on the drop cloth to try and lose whatever paint might have migrated there.

He goes for a quick egg scramble with some veggies and bacon and a dash of cheese, as well as some toast. Halfway through cooking, Derek comes over, wiping his hands off on his jeans absently, leaving a few white streaks. Stiles finds himself wondering if the jeans are grey because of such paint stains over time. The outside edges certainly look a bit lighter than the inside edg- okay yeah, _not_ looking at Derek's crotch.

Stiles grits his teeth as he stirs the eggs and Derek starts washing his hands in the sink. The whole _trying_ not to appreciate Derek's natural sexual appeal is more or less just really making things worse. It's not in his _nature_ not to look casually and appreciate the world around him, it's not in his nature to suppress himself in any way really. 

So he lets himself appreciate the way Derek's hands look under the water, then moves on. Derek brews some more coffee. While he seems to be intent on monitoring the coffee, Stiles finishes the eggs and toast. Before he can even make a crack about eating like wild animals, Derek sets out a couple of plates for Stiles to dish onto. Then they settle at the bar. Stiles, for one, is ravenously hungry, but it's a while since he's gotten to cook for someone new, so he waits, holding the hot mug of coffee in his hand and trying not to be too obvious staring at Derek as he loads up a forkful and frowns at it. He looks skeptical, but whether because of hunger or manners, he takes the plunge.   
Stiles grins when Derek's eyebrows shoot up in surprise after his first bite of zucchini-laden egg.

"Right? See, I think zucchinis are really a seriously underestimated veggie. Like, they're so versatile, but they're not pushovers, they don't just blend too perfectly. They've got flavor. But like, a complementary flavor. One that works well with lots of stuff. Do you like zucchini bread? Because I swear, a good zucchini bread is one of the best things ever invented. Because you know, like sweet breads, like pumpkin or lemon or banana breads, they can get waaay too sweet. People add way too much sugar anyway. I prefer the flavor and complex sweetness of raw fruits and veggies."

Derek simply nods and continues chewing his food, so Stiles shoves a piece of toast in his mouth lest he forget to eat and tries not to feel the silence. Of course about five minutes later he's going on a rant about the pros and cons of multi-seed bread versus multi-grain. Derek seems content to listen to his rambling through the food, through washing the dishes, and through sipping the remainders of their coffee.

Eventually, however, they both end up fed and caffeinated, and each with a new 3x3 canvas, freshly gessoed and dried. Derek deems them ready for the actual colors. He starts laying out objects from the crates they'd brought in, long tubes and boxes that he pulls open and shows Stiles.

"These are pre-mixed paints. They're easiest to work with, smoothest and most uniform. But they're also very standard. Lacking… uniqueness I suppose. That's why sometimes I mix my own pigments. Like these," he says, setting out a few small jars. "Mostly just for important pieces, the ones I have planned out ahead of time."

"So you don't plan all your works then?" Stiles asks, snapping photos of the pigments as Derek opens them and lays their lids out on the work table in a neat line, trying to capture the unbelievably pure and vivid colors. 

"No. A lot of it is just… instinct. Not that there isn't preparation. All the time spent sketching the wolves at the reserve, or sketching the environments on my hikes. That all contributes."

He can definitely understand that. Most of his time snapping pictures is just trying to notice things, try out angles and catch lights. When he buckles down to actually do a _shoot_ , it's never something done in total isolation from whatever else he's doing.

Derek glances over at the bookcase containing row upon row of sketchpads. Stiles follows his glance a little wistfully, wondering, but doubting that he'll ever have a chance to see them. Derek puts the pigments away and gets out a slim plastic palate from a drawer beneath the counter as he continues, "It's when I get closer to completing a collection that I have to start painting with the whole set in mind. So planning out the pieces becomes more important."

He pops the cap on a tube that says phthalo blue and squeezes a strip of it onto the palate and holds it out to Stiles, who promptly takes a photo of it before capping his camera and setting it carefully aside. He takes the tray while Derek pours a little of the linseed oil into a small bowl and follows when Derek moves over to the canvases.

Derek takes a paint-brush from the easel and dips it in the oil, then smears it on the palate in Stiles's hands. Then he nudges some of the paint over and blends the two into a smooth, glossy mixture. He coats the brush in it, then lifts his brush to the surface. As Derek spreads the first smear of paint across the canvas, Stiles watches intently, head tilting to follow the arc of the brush. It's rich and smooth and the smell of the linseed oil is fresh and heady.

"It's like… the paint is still alive," Stiles says. "The way the oils blend and… I can't even find the words for it. Does that even make any sense?" he asks.

Derek's already looking at him in surprise when he turns his gaze from the canvas.

After a moment he clears his throat and nods. "Yeah that's… I know what you mean. That's…," he trails off, the pushes his fingers up against the smear of paint, spreading them through it and running them reverently along the canvas, like he's just soaking in the visceral sensation of it.

"It's why I really only paint with oils," he says.

Stiles finds himself swallowing at the way his skin tingles unhelpfully with the imagined sensation of what it would feel to have Derek touch _him_ that way. Yeah. So not going there. He wrinkles his nose against the thought and tries to focus on the novelty of the pigments.

"Here," Derek says quietly, taking his hand with paint-smeared fingers and lifting it to the canvas. "Try it."

Stiles laughs breathily as he presses his fingertips into the paint. It's cool, and feels rich to his skin, the oils meeting him in simple organic chemistry, the pigments blending through them. The paint warms and rolls through his fingers as he glides his digits together, pressing the colors between them. Derek's hand comes back up next to his, dipping into the paint again and pushing it along beside him.

"Oh my god please tell me you actually paint with your fingers," he says as he twirls his wrist in a spiral, leaving trails of paint in little arcs.

"Sometimes," Derek says, sounding amused. 

Stiles is amazed at the way it feels to push a bold blue pigment across the pristine white surface. To mark it. To create something. It's similar to the feeling he gets capturing a really great photo, but completely different at the same time.

"So, you just like, what, put paint on the canvas and then your talent leaps out of your fingers and arranges it into something amazing?" Stiles says, staring at the childish finger-paintings skeptically.

Derek snorts, shaking his head. Stiles grins absently

"I guess what I'm asking about is how you start a painting," Stiles explains, poking at the paint again. "I mean, you don't just do this, do you?"

Derek shakes his head. "No, but it's not so far off. Sometimes I'll just pick a color that… feels right. And put some of it on the canvas until it evokes something in me. Till it… reminds me of something," he says, still running his hands through the paint.

Stiles looks assessingly at the vivid blue on the canvas. The first thing it reminds him of is the shade of Lydia's dress she'd worn to Scott and Allison's wedding. He was a portrait photographer after all. That made sense he supposed.

"There are all sorts of techniques, but for the most part, I just… do what feels right."

"What does this color evoke for you?" Stiles asks.

Derek thinks for a moment, gazing at the pigment on his skin. "There's a spring, deep in the forest. If you go there at twilight, the water looks like this when it reflects the sky."

A small smile passes over his face, though his gaze is distant, clearly at that place in the woods. Then he blinks and turns the gaze on Stiles. "But we're going to paint something different," he says, wiping the excess paint off his hands onto his canvas and then reaching down to the small rack attached to the easel. 

"Here," Derek says, handing him a brush. Stiles takes it, then Derek turns and disappears around the corner into the kitchen area. Stiles kind-of stares after him, then experimentally pokes the bristles against his fingers, then against the blank canvas. And then yeah totally against his face because why not? They're smooth. High quality, he thought. Well-kept. The paint has tinted the bristles over time, but there are no clumps of stiff old paint.

When Derek returns, he has a bowl sitting atop one of the kitchen barstools held in front of him. The bowl has the remaining zucchini and a couple other vegetables stacked in it.

"Trust me, it's a cliché, but it's that way for a reason," he says, plunking the stool down between their easels.

"What is?" Stiles asks, confused.

"Still life of produce," Derek says. "You're going to paint those."

Stiles gapes at him a moment. "But I don't know how to paint."

Derek lifts an eyebrow at him.

"I should have made a smaller canvas," Stiles mutters.

Derek casts an amused look at him over his shoulder as he gets out a fresh palate and starts spreading lines of paint across it. "Actually it's easier to play with the basics on a larger canvas."

When he hands the tray to Stiles, he frowns at it. "There's no green. You didn't give me any green."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "I know."

Stiles fixes him with a facial expression which is probably a mix of a pout, a scowl, and interest. Derek steps past him and moves over to the bowl, crouching down beside it and motioning Stiles over to follow. He does, and stares at the zucchini sticking out of the dish.

"Lesson number one is going to be forgetting everything you think you know about what color things are."

 

Hours later, Stiles actually has something that resembles a bowl of vegetables. He was still amazed at the fact that he'd never once gotten out a green pigment to paint what had obviously been a green vegetable - at least it had been before they'd started. Now he saw what Derek meant about the color. It had a purple tinge in the shadow, a yellow and grey edge in the highlights. Hints of red giving it vibrancy in the fullest part of the plant. It didn't really look green at all on the canvas, but somehow it made sense. He was used to capturing things as they were with his camera. Derek seemed to be interested in capturing what was underneath. It was absolutely fascinating. 

"Wow, how do you _do_ this all day?" Stiles says, stretching his arms up above his head with a groan.

"Don't move," Derek says sharply, and Stiles freezes, arms awkwardly mid-air, half on their downward swing .

"Hang on, you've got…," Derek reaches over with a paper towel and swipes along his triceps. The sheet comes away smeared with paint.

"How did...?" Stiles says, lifting his arm to look at the underside of it. It's smeared with red and blue, just like his hands. He twists, trying to look at it, then blurts, "Aww crap I got some here too," as he finds more on his other elbow. "What the…"

Derek just laughs, catching his wrist to hold him still while he gets the majority of the loose paint off his skin. "I'm just amazed you haven't gotten any on your face. Sorry. I shouldn't have used blue. It's a bitch to get out."

Stiles isn't sorry about anything. Derek's laugh is beautiful the way it lights up his face. He discards the paper towels and snags a couple rags from his bin, dipping them in left-over linseed oil.

"Here," he says, taking Stiles's hand and rubbing it with an oil-damp cloth. He bends his head to the task as he rubs little methodical swirls into his skin, taking away most of the pigment with the oil. The first is discarded, and a soft dry cloth gets scrubbed over his skin, taking away the excess oil. There's still pigment staining his skin, but it's not nearly as prominent. Derek works on the smear on the back of his arm next, and then even on a smear on his neck - which he's grateful for because he'd never reach it well. He's also really not grateful for the way it puts Derek's face inches from his own. It's cool though. He's dealing. It's all fine and good - until Derek looks up at him and realizes how close they are again.

His hand slows, but doesn't stop in its slow motion along the back of his neck. The oil is leaving a tingling warmth behind on his skin. He watches as Derek's eyes slip down to his mouth. He can't help the way his lips part, he really can't. It's a reflexive reaction. But it just looks like invitation, he's sure, given the way Derek tilts his head just a fraction, licking his own lips.

It's not an invitation. Instinctually it totally is. He would totally plant one on Derek right that second if it weren't for those pesky higher-order thoughts about integrity and respect. Before he (yeah he's really not sure which 'he' either) can decide to close the distance, Stiles turns his head sharply and says, "Thanks, I think that's got it."

His voice sounds stilted even to him. He clears his throat and moves away, rubbing his hands on his jeans with the last residue of the oil. He doesn't look back. He just walks away around the corner and shuts himself in the bathroom for a while, ostensibly to wash up, but mostly so he can calm down. He scrubs his hands in the sink but all it does is evoke the sensation of Derek's fingers massaging his skin. He presses the cool water to his heated cheeks and takes slow, calming breaths. But he's no more settled when he dries his hands again on a towel. 

Still, hiding in the bathroom isn't going to do him any good so he steels himself and goes back out to the living room. Derek is just standing there, staring at the paintings. He doesn't turn though Stiles's footsteps are clearly audible in the silence.

"Hey, thanks for the painting lesson," Stiles says, crossing his arms across his chest. He means it, he does, though the cheerfulness sounds a bit forced. He makes sure to relax a little before saying sincerely, "It was really amazing."

Derek turns a guarded look on him, and then nods.

The pause is awkward, timing off between them again, as bad as it had been in the morning. Stiles glances back through some of the open windows. "You know, the light outside looks really nice right now. I think I'm going to take a walk."

Derek nods again, looking down at the paint brush in his hands. So Stiles nods to himself and steps over to where he left his camera. He scoops it up without any extra production, then turns and heads out the front door.

It really is beautiful outside. It's not like the place really could be anything less, in any lighting. He marches off in a random direction, stepping over low foliage and foregoing any existing path. He takes one photo, but scowls at it in frustration and gives up, shoving the camera back in his bag as he walks. 

He's not really out here for the photos anyway. He's out here because he can't think inside that little cabin with all the heady smells of oil paints and Derek standing so close to him, touching him and gazing at his mouth. He shouldn't be having this much trouble. He should be able to just ignore and avoid the sexual tension. He's never had a problem doing what he thought was right before. But then again, thinking it over, he probably hasn't been faced with two things that both felt so strongly right. And his natural attraction towards Derek, as well as his inclination to hold up his integrity… those both matter.

But questions remain. Like what the hell he's even doing out here in the woods. Sleeping in the same bed as the guy, the featured artist he's supposed to be interviewing. Hanging out around him, getting in his way. They haven't set any timelines, any goals. It's too much like a lovers' getaway. And is that really a problem? Derek had been the one to invite him out here in the first place. If Derek wants it to be… 

The problem is, the problem with it all is that he's not good at second-guessing himself. It doesn't go well. He just ends up in a puddle of anxiety and tension. He'd spent a good deal of his high school years that way until he'd gotten to a point where he felt like he could trust himself. He doesn't like the fact that all this worrying is making him feel like a teenager again. 

He's not. He's a grown man, with maturity and enough sophistication to deal with grown-up issues. He sighs and stops walking, just stands there, gazing up at the sky through the trees.  
Perhaps if he were to be open and honest, straight-forward, Derek wouldn't believe those horrible things Joel had said. Derek can make his own decisions. Stiles certainly can't make them for him. That would be just as bad.  
No. Second-guessing himself just doesn't work. He should go with his gut, trust himself to do what feels right moment by moment. 

Maybe.

He closes his eyes and listens to the forest a while. 

He wonders, if he waits long enough, whether he'll hear the wolves howl.


	11. Histories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is fiction, the Native American tribe in this story is also fictional, but I tried to stick to realistic representations to the best of my ability. It is based on some of the Chinookan cultures I grew up learning about and have been reading up on lately, though please don't take any of it for fact; I am by no means an expert in Indigenous American culture.

He wakes feeling almost peaceful. Warm. Soft. Mostly, anyway; he also wakes with the worst morning wood. Probably because it's snugged firmly between Stiles's thigh and his own, given the way their legs are tangled. He only barely manages to keep his sleep-addled self from tightening the hand on Stiles's ass and riding his thigh. His hand lingers along that firm curve, even after he's conscious, but he has to choose his battles while the rest of his self-restraint manages to come online. It takes longer than it should, long enough that he breathes in the scent of him, becomes conscious of every warm inch of skin they are against each other. Stiles, fortunately, is still firmly out, face angled back on the pillow, mouth hanging open as he snores faintly.

Derek begins the slow process of extricating himself. Eventually he gets their limbs separated and eases Stiles onto his back so that he can slip away to the bathroom without waking the other man. His hard-on is still more than present, throbbing almost painfully as standing causes even more blood pressure in the lower half of his body. 

He gives it a minute or two, splashing cool water on his face and breathing the fresh morning air coming through the bathroom window, but the erection shows no sign of dissipating. He hadn't really expected it would, not after the tensions of the last few days and nights. With a sigh he slips his shorts down around his thighs, shivering in the wake of the sensations. He spits in his hand and begins a brief jerk-off session, leaning against the sink and trying not to think of Stiles. 

It's a futile intention. He hasn't welcomed someone into his bed in a long, long time. He hadn't even been sure he would trust anyone enough again to want to, let alone come this close to acting on it. Partially, anyway. He strokes himself quickly and firmly, free hand braced against the bathroom wall to steady himself. At first he's tempted to remember the physical things, the way Stiles looked in his running shorts, the way his mouth looked when his lips parted, how firm his ass was under Derek's hand. But it's not what stays in his mind. He takes tight breaths and remembers the warmth of Stiles's body against his, the sweet feeling of deep contentment he had felt upon waking. The way his eyes would light up in excitement. His smile. His body is more than willing to rush along to completion. He squeezes his eyes shut and burrows his face into the crook of his elbow as he shudders through his peak, like he's pressing his face into Stiles's neck while he's spilling himself into his fingers. It feels so right but he doesn't understand it, how a smile, how contentment could be arousing. 

Physical needs he understands. He has always taken care of them without qualm. Emotional needs, however, are a much more difficult part of his life. He has worked to take care of them, building his pack, finding meaning. But where physical and emotional needs intersect… there he is lost. When he washes his hands, the look he catches on his face in the mirror certainly speaks to that. He'll probably struggle with it the rest of his life. But problematic as it may be, it doesn't seem wrong to want that comfort. How could it be? 

It's also far too early and under-caffeinated for him to be thinking about any of that.

When he comes back out of the bathroom, Stiles is sitting on the bed, shirtless and blinking sleepily, running shoe in his hand. It makes him very glad that he's already dealt with his arousal directly because the sight would be enough to have his body reacting if it were physically possible, and the shorts he is wearing would do little to disguise it. Stiles's eyes focus on Derek and a smile curls over his mouth for a moment before he glances back down at his lap and laughs, putting his shoe on, presumably resuming the action he'd begun before his drowsiness had waylaid it. 

Derek hadn't thought Stiles would join him again, not after the last time. Still, he wasn't about to tell him not to. He'd just be sure to keep the run simple exercise. No sexually-charged races this time. He'd take them on a slower, longer route. Stiles pulls a fresh shirt on and stands, rolling his shoulders a little as Derek nears. He glances at Derek briefly when Derek slips past him heading for the dresser to pull out some running clothes of his own.

Stiles disappears silently into the bathroom as he dresses. By the time Derek has his shorts and tee on and has finished waffling over whether or not to wear his shoes again, Stiles re-appears, ready to go. They don't say a thing, they just move easily towards the door, heading outside in easy coordination. 

The morning light is beautiful, peeking through the trees, holding the stillness save for where the gentle breeze rustles leaves and carries the morning chatter of birds and squirrels. Stiles bounces on his toes easily, shaking off sleep and loosening up his body in a seemingly automatic pattern of arm and torso motions. He notices Stiles's speculative glance at Derek's bare feet, but neither of them speaks on it. Derek looks away as he moves similarly, though without the regimented feel Stiles's warm-ups have. After a minute or two of loosening his limbs he glances at Stiles, then starts walking down the path, keeping the pace just below brisk. A proper warm-up is needed if they're going to run as long as he wants to.

And he needs to run.

He'd been so frustrated with himself yesterday that he'd tried to kiss Stiles. After they'd worked the whole day just to get back some of the easy camaraderie after the awkwardness of the morning, he'd just thrown it away because of a little proximity. Not that that was enough to explain it. Not really. Having Stiles's fingers buried in the oils, seeing it smeared on his skin, seeing his eyes bright and intent on Derek sharing his perspectives on painting, seeing him create his own perspective… 

No, he hadn't really been thinking about anything else but that when he'd touched him. But he should have been. He had been so worried that he'd ruined everything when Stiles had left. Yet the evening had ended quietly, both retreating to their work for the remainder of the day.

And he had worked. He hadn't expected that, being able to paint with Stiles in the room. But he had. He'd even gotten lost in it, into a flow state. True, it was different, a little, from the way he could get completely and totally lost in painting when he was completely alone. There were times when he would paint for days, doing nothing but eating and sleeping and painting, no sense of time passing or anything but whenever his body's needs would intrude. It hadn't been like that last night. He had never really been unaware of Stiles's presence. But he had faded in and out, brushing through the edges of his consciousness with the lightness of an evening breeze.

It is trust, he realizes. Something he only has ever experienced with Erica and Boyd and Isaac - though none of them could ever sit still long enough for him to get used to painting around them. Not that Stiles seemed to be able to really sit still. But there was such an organic way to how he moved, how his attention was drawn. It wasn't intrusive - other than the pull of attraction anyway.

Then Stiles had smiled at him, then climbed into his bed like it was the easiest thing in the universe. So Derek had washed the pigments from his skin, had turned out the lights and banked the fire, and had crawled in with him.

They had listened to the wind in silence till they'd both fallen asleep.

The urge to run is hard in his chest, so he takes a deep breath and shifts, lifting his knees into a longer stride. The feeling of moss and ferns, sticks and dirt and pebbles under his feet is wonderful. Grounding. This is why he'd come back here, to feel real again, to feel connected to the earth. As he turns them along a different path than the day before, a different path than he'd thought he'd pick, he glances over his shoulder at Stiles, checking that he's there. 

The pace he's instinctually set after the requisite walking warm-up is not as easy as he'd originally intended. But Stiles doesn't say anything, he just keeps silent pace with Derek, eyes on the trees as he runs, taking deep, even breaths over every four strides. He considers slowing but the rebellious knot in his chest demands he keep the hard pace. It was a simple route thus far. If the other man wanted to turn back at any point he was more than free to do so. He has to trust Stiles to make his own decisions. 

Hell, if he trusted him enough to bring him here, to bring him into his _forest_ … 

He picks up his pace even further. 

Derek relaxes into it finally. He lets his mind go blank, feeling the rain-dampened dirt and plants crushing under his tread, feels the burn and then the loosening of his muscles as his stride lengthens. His head tips back as he runs, letting himself be free of himself, free of all the things that hurt and scare him. So little has come without cost. But out here there is balance. There is a brutal fairness to the wilds that humans seem to eschew.

He hasn't come on this route for a long time. The foliage is thick on either side of the narrow, wending path, leaving little line of sight. As they turn a corner in the path a downed tree is abruptly ahead in their way. There's no time to stop. He slaps his palms on it to lever himself over it, rolling as he lands. Stiles, on the other hand, kicks his foreleg up and hurdles over the tree in perfect form. He lands laughing, still at speed as Derek falters in the dirt, fumbling to his feet.

And then he's chasing Stiles in another foolish game. 

But unlike the sexually-charged race of the day before, today it's wild, simple, without thought. And though Stiles is still faster than him, this time he has the advantage. He knows the route. With Stiles leading, he's got the benefit of Stiles having more to think about than when he'd been following Derek. His graceful stride is more uneven as he skids through turns and throws glances back at Derek. His face is split in a wild grin, eyes bright and golden in the morning light.

Soon the terrain changes slightly, foliage becoming thicker and more lush, dipping down in a slight grade. Light comes more clearly through the arch of trees over the path, glowing in the air like a wall of light where the clearing around the spring lets the sun flood through. 

Stiles's pace starts to ease, and Derek does the same, keeping just back of him as he passes through the arch of the trees, watching his face. For whatever reason he's finding it terribly important to see how Stiles reacts.

It's another secret place, a piece of him that no one sees. 

Stiles doesn't know that, but he seems awed by the place nonetheless. The deep clear water, the dark stone on the embankment and out in the center of the pool. It's a pure, raw place - at least that's the feeling it evokes in Derek. In unspoken coordination they slow, deviating from the trail to drift down to the bank.

"Can I?" Stiles gasps out, waving a hand at the water. "Can we swim? 

Derek is too out of breath to respond, so he just peels off his shirt and tosses it aside. After only a moment's hesitation he drags down his shorts and kicks them away too as he jogs down to the water's edge, splashing into the pool. He doesn't make it far though before he's just falling over and landing on his back in the water, floating and breathing the cool air. 

Stiles's breathy laugh is the only sound in the clearing other than the faint splash of rippling water. He doesn't look - too busy floating, but he sees flashes of clothing in his peripheral vision and moments later he hears another splash. Stiles stumbles as he comes into the water, cursing under his breath about the cold and making a great deal of noise and rippling the water as he sits down on the submerged bank with a pleased groan.

They both sit for a while, breaths loud in the silence as they cool down. The water is indeed shocking in contrast to their heated skin, but it's relatively temperate.

After he catches his breath he rolls over and kicks out into deeper water, treading water to look back at the other man. His chest is bare, still visible where he lays half on the bank. His lower body is equally bare, though it is more or less hidden from view by the rippling water. 

For Derek, like the running, being free and bare in the water inspires a deep sensation of rightness. But even more heady is the fact that he is not alone in the experience.

If he'd considered it, he would have thought that Stiles would have felt out of place in the wild, that he would have hesitated before discarding his clothes and leaping into the water like this. He had seemed so at home in the bustle of the city, the crowds of people and the urban aesthetics. Yet he seems just as home out here, naked and basking in the sunlight.

As though sensing his regard, Stiles sits up and pushes off the bank, swimming out into the water towards Derek. His cheeks are still flushed with the exertion, eyes bright as he strokes closer. Mischievous even. Derek lifts a questioning eyebrow at him just in time to get hit with a face-full of water.

He sputters as Stiles laughs. Mercilessly another spike of water comes his way to buffet him again. Before he can even process it, he's diving under the water, kicking his way over to one side and out of Stiles's sights. Hanging down long enough to build the surprise, he curls around his target. With a powerful butterfly kick he bursts up from the water and hurls a returning armful of spring-water in Stiles's direction, laughing when the other man yelps in surprise.

Stiles is quick to respond, though, spiking water back with one hand while he guards his eyes with the other, laughing. Derek's already diving again when Stiles gathers himself enough to launch a more serious splash back. This time he goes straight for him, wrapping strong hands around his legs, jerking hard and dragging him under the water. He twists his body in a barrel roll, getting Stiles under him before pushing up and surfacing with a gasp. It's a rough move but history has it there are no concessions in water-fights.

He laughs as he swims away. He hasn't done that in…

It hurts, suddenly, the playful action. The memories. His little sister had loved to play in the lake, the pool, the ocean. Anywhere, everywhere there was water, she had been there, determined to dunk, splash, or quite possibly drown any of her siblings she could get in her crosshairs. 

As Stiles surfaces, begging for a time-out to catch his breath, he swims away towards the center of the spring where the vein of granite has weathered the erosion of the water where the softer rock around it has not. A shallow ledge sits a little ways under the water's surface. Some months the water level is high enough that he can only just touch it. Right now though it makes for a comfortable seat. 

His heart is pounding now, but not from the run or the swimming but because of the sudden spike of fear in his chest. Fear of wanting. Fear of loss. He should never have let Stiles in like this. It's too dangerous. It's also far too late. 

He sits on the ledge, staring up at the hole in the canopy above them, trying to catch his breath. After a moment, Stiles swims over after him, pulls himself up onto the ledge beside him. He's silent this time, though, picking up on Derek's tension.

"My sister," Derek finds himself saying. "Lilly. She used to love this. Playing in the water. She would have loved it here."

Stiles's face is quiet and open, eyes soft as he gazes over at Derek. He's already said more than he'd ever intended, but that look pulls at the edges of the rattling, over-full box of painful memories lodged in his chest. The hand that touches softly against his shoulder breaks it open.

"She was the youngest. Only nine years old. And a little hellion, trying to keep up with the rest of us. Persistent. The only way to escape was to pull her under and swim away and hope she'd get distracted by something underwater or set her sights on someone else."

"So that's who taught you your moves," Stiles says with a faint smile. His thumb traces a soothing pattern against Derek's shoulder.

Derek nods slowly, staring at his hands floating in the water. "I'd forgotten," he whispers.

Derek takes a shaky breath, fingers curling against the ripples. "Sorry, I shouldn't…," he begins, but Stiles interrupts him with a sound of disagreement. And then Stiles is lifting his hand, brushing it along Derek's temple and curving his fingers against the line where his jaw meets his neck, feathering over his pulse. Then he leans forward, pressing his lips to Derek's cheek just beside the corner of his mouth. To the point of his cheekbone. It's soft. So damn gentle.

Derek gives in to instinct and curls into him, curving his face down against Stiles's shoulder. Trim, strong arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, and after a moment he lets his hands curl around Stiles's waist. They stay like that for a long time, till the water starts to feel cold and Stiles's stomach starts to rumble. Derek lets go and Stiles sits back with a sheepish expression, glancing down at his belly.

"How do you feel about omelets?"

 

 

They don't talk about it again. When they get back they eat. He listens to Stiles tell him stories about his job, his escapades back on the lacrosse team with his best friend, his father and a half-dozen other topics while he cooks. He works on his laptop while Derek constructs a few new canvases, does some sketches in preparation for developing his next collection. A few days go by in similar fashion. They run in the mornings, talk over meals. Derek paints and Stiles types in the afternoons and they sit by the fire in the evenings. At night they climb into bed together without a word. Except now when Stiles's hand brushes against Derek's under the covers, neither of them pull away. And when Derek shifts onto his side, Stiles settles against him, curling an arm around his waist without hesitation.

It's not really the same at all.

One day, though, after breakfast, instead of pulling out the gesso or stretching a canvas, he comes back into the living room, frowning over at Stiles. While he's already shown Stiles some of his most precious places, he hasn't shown him the most important. He hesitates only a moment before turning towards his desk. Stiles's eyes shift to him briefly as he picks up his sketch pad, checking that it has enough space before sticking a pencil in the spiral and turning. Stiles is just starting to pull his laptop up out of his bag when Derek walks over, sketchbook in hand. 

"Come on," he says.

"Hm?" Stiles asks, putting the bag back down.

"Come with me. I want to show you something. Bring your camera. And your keys," Derek adds, turning away and heading for the door. A fresh pang of nerves has him frowning as he grabs his coat from the hook near the door. Stiles comes along after him, excitement clear in his eyes as he snags his camera bag and comes after him, quickly shoving his feet into his boots as he slips into his hoodie. Derek finishes lacing up his boots and then leads the way out of the cabin, Stiles close on his heels.

"Oh hey, should I…," Stiles begins, jerking a thumb back at the cabin door and miming a locking motion with his hand. 

Derek blinks at him, then shrugs. "Nobody comes out here. But if you want."

Stiles shrugs and continues forward, asking, "Driving somewhere?"

Derek nods and Stiles slips ahead of him to unlock the passenger door. He pulls open the door and steps around the back as Derek climbs in. He thumbs along the edge of his sketch pad as Stiles starts the jeep and turns them around, heading down the road. He doesn't bother to give directions since there's really only one way out from the cabin. But eventually the intersection appears ahead and he says, "Go east."

Stiles leans forward to squint up at the sky, apparently to determine which direction the sun was, since unlike Derek he didn't know the territory well enough to remember cardinal directions offhand.

"Where are we going?" Stiles asks a while after they've gone back out onto the main road, having turned east as directed.

Derek points out a turn-off just a little ways further down the road. It has an official state sign that indicates the wildlife reserve is ahead. 

"Oh shit, really?" Stiles blurts, grinning at him. "Okay I am seriously so excited right now you have no idea," he says, fingers tapping out a fast rhythm on the steering wheel to emphasize his point. Derek smiles at the motion, then back at him, though he breaks his gaze after only a moment. 

Stiles follows the signs and turn-offs without further direction, pulling in to the large parking lot after a while. There is a large main building, made of heavy logs and wood-finished surfaces. There is another building which resembles the old Big-Houses of some of the region's native-American tribes. Given the way Stiles's eyes widen and his lips part, it's a larger facility than he had expected. 

There are a few cars parked in the lot, families mostly, sleepy children dragging along behind parents determined to pack important sights into every last moment of their "vacation". Derek glances at the sky. It's still early yet, but since the wolves in the woods were certainly already awake, the facility would already being up and running as well.

"Park anywhere," he says, so Stiles does, parking vaguely in the middle of the lot. He practically has his door open before he's even turned off the jeep, popping the clasp of his seat belt and hopping down even as he reaches for his camera.

He waits as Stiles starts in on the surroundings, taking in exteriors and surroundings. After a while he casts a sheepish look at Derek and mutters an apology, but Derek just shrugs. It's not like he minds coming out here. It has a groundedness, a stillness that goes deep like tree-roots. He likes the feeling.

Since Stiles is seemingly ready to continue, Derek leads the way to the main building. Stiles pauses on the wooden walkway, lining up a shot of the large plaque that stands between the twin sets of double doors to the facility. The Hale family is named as the benefactors and protectors of the land. Out of habit, Derek touches the corner of the plaque as he pulls open the door and he hears the shutter click behind him once more.

There's a lot to see right away, but when they pass through the main doors, Derek takes an immediate turn, going for the "Employees only" door to one side. He punches a code into the keypad and opens it for them, though Stiles gazes longingly at the facility. But at some point they'll return, so he doesn't deviate from his intention.

They slip out a back door into the main room of a small viewing cabin attached to one of the inner wolf enclosures. Normally it would be ridiculously over-crowded, as it would be for the evening feeding. But it's closed still for the morning so the tourists are on the outside near the fences, watching some of the wolves ramble around over their side of the terrain. 

"No flash, ok?" he says, turning a serious expression on Stiles waiting until Stiles says "Understood" before dropping his arm and letting Stiles into the room.

One of the wolves trots down the slope to the water, splashing its muzzle around, rinsing off the faint residue of blood and lapping up a drink. 

"Ohhh," Stiles whispers, scooting forward to press against the glass that's near a shadowed rock pool. He snaps a few photos, looking like he's trying his best to stay as still as possible. 

Derek squints out the window at the wolf. It looks like it's Skip. She'd been shot and left for dead out in the woods to die by some idiots who thought they were hunters. She was probably never going to get back full use of her left forepaw, but she made do surprisingly well.

Derek feels more relaxed than ever, here in this familiar and purposeful area. Different from being home in his den with Stiles in attendance. It had been a balm, certainly, but he couldn't say he'd quite been relaxed yet. 

Here though...

He could spend hours just watching the wolves. Stiles could too, it seems, but Skip has other ideas, bounding away up the rocks and out into the rest of the area, mostly out of sight. The other wolves are already laying down in the shadows. Their morning play and feeding is done and they seem ready to begin the serious business of napping. 

"Aw, come back," Stiles mumbles, leaning into the huge window like a child. He huffs a petulant sigh when his request is ignored and turns to Derek, a playful pout on his face.

"It looks like they've already finished with the morning feeding, so they're probably all going to hide where they can't be seen in the trees and nap soon," Derek says when Stiles blows out his lips in disappointment. "But I wanted to try and see if we could catch a few before going inside."

"Yeah. Yeah, thank you," Stiles says, adding a sincere nod as he steps back from the windows and falls into step beside Derek as he leads them back through the door they'd come in through.

"We'll come see them again later when they'll be more awake. But I think you'll like to see the rest of the facility in the meantime. We've found that education is as important and providing a haven for the wolves. "

With the wolves napping, the early patrons of the facility are also moving inside, children talking in excited clusters as they move through the exhibits, recounting back and forth what they'd just seen at the morning feedings as their parents try and encourage them to pay attention to all the information boards.

Though normally he tries to avoid the place when it's full of tourists, he appreciates the number of patrons and the general excitement over the exhibits. Though he's seen them all before a number of times, Derek is content to remain by Stiles's side while Stiles reads every word of the informational plaques and jots down notes. His eyes are bright with excitement, even hours in. His excitement keeps Derek's attention, keeps him from growing impatient. He even sits with him through the short informational films, watching the flickering lights cast their angles over his face. 

Of course the smell of the place and its low, homey lighting helps. It smells of dust and old leather and carefully-preserved wolf-pelts. Glue and paint too, just a bit, but mostly leather, wood and dust. When they leave the theater area he finds himself stroking his fingers over one of the pelts that is sitting on a low-slung table where children can reach them and various other objects like bones and carvings. Stiles, of course, photographs and fondles each one in turn.

When they've exhausted the main hall and the information about the wolves, Derek leads him out across the way over to the old big-house. Though it is still used sometimes for its original purpose, it also contains exhibits on the tribe's history, as well as general history of the natives and settlers of the region. Though the wolves are the main attraction of the reserve, Derek is also proud that the tribe's history is being supported through his efforts. It too is part of why he does all of this, he explains to Stiles as they explore the exhibits here as well. Stiles, of course, soaks up the tribal exhibits with just as much fervor as he had those about the wolves. Even more so, in some cases. 

"Oh talk about commitment to fashion," Stiles blurts, gazing at one of the models of the old tribe; a mother with her swaddled baby cradled against a board, its head braced down by a flat rock over the forehead designed to flatten the brow.

"It was considered attractive," Derek agrees.

"It's," Stiles snickers, "It's stone age plastic surgery."

Derek just looks at him with an amused but unimpressed raised eyebrow. 

"Get it? _Stone_ age?" he adds, pointing at the rock and grinning. 

He gets it, though he tries to stifle the responding grin. It proves futile when he turns, a broad smile spreading across his face when he spots an older man with weathered features treading softly across the floor towards him. 

"Joe, klahowya," he says in greeting.

The man smiles in return. "Tlel Il-e-ak-hum, it is good to see you."

Stiles raises his eyebrows as Joe sets his hands on Derek's shoulders and greets him with a warm hug which Derek returns.

"Tlel wha...?" Stiles mouths silently at Derek over Joe's shoulder. 

Derek just raises an eyebrow at him, mouth quirking. "Stiles, this is Joe, he curates the facility. He's also the tribe's current Big Man. Joe, this is Stiles. He's doing a story on my artwork." he says turning to indicate the photographer.

"Ah, a new friend. I am pleased to meet you," he says, extending his age-gnarled hand.

"Likewise," Stiles says genuinely, meeting his handshake. He glances back at Derek, then at Joe. He looks like he tries to bite back his next words, but it's not in his nature. "So what was that you called him? Tlel…?"

"Tlel Il-e-ak-hum. It is an old Chinook name, Derek's name given to him by our tribe." 

Stiles eyes him skeptically. "But you're Joe?"

The man laughs, eyes crinkling. "It's easier to say."

Stiles grins, "I know the feeling."

Joe seems to see his curiosity and continues, explaining as he starts to walk along the halls of the exhibit. "The spirits guide us to choose names for our young people when they come of age. I was given the name Tat-le-lum Yot'h."

"Wow, so you have, like, a spirit animal then?" Stiles asks, glancing between them. 

Joe hesitates a moment and frowns slightly at him, but he shrugs. "That would be one way of putting it."

Stiles grins eagerly, half-turning to face him and walk sideways as he thinks over his questions. "That is so cool! How did you meet them? What animal is it?"

Derek winces and clears his throat drawing Stiles's gaze as Joe purses his lips in an odd smile. "You don't ask that," Derek explains quietly.

Stiles jerks to a halt and gapes at him, then turns abruptly to Joe. "I'm so sorry," he says, hand wavering in the air beside him.

Joe smiles faintly, and pats Stiles on his shoulder. "Well. I do not think the spirits would be offended by a curious little fox," he says, discomfort apparently assuaged, but doesn't explain further.

Stiles blinks at him, wide-eyed, but he manages to hold his tongue this time, though it looks like he might actually be having to physically bite it to do so.

"So what brings you out so soon?" Joe asks, looking over at Derek. "You are usually gone longer."

Derek nods. "The city got to be too overwhelming. Plus I wanted to show Stiles here all your hard work and the sources of my inspiration."

"Ah, yes. Wise of you."

"Tyee," a woman's voice calls.

Joe slows to a halt turning to look behind them. Derek glances back too, frowning when he sees Waneta striding towards them, a sour look on her face.

"Oh. Hale," she says, voice bitter as ever when she speaks to him, dark eyes flashing. "Back to profit off our culture some more I see. And bringing another cheechako," she adds, casting a disgusted look at Stiles.

"Waneta," he says, voice studiously polite, ignoring her accusations. 

She huffs an annoyed breath and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Well, it seems I am needed," Joe says before she can pick a fight, turning back to them. "It was good to meet you, Stiles."

"Likewise," Stiles says quietly, turning his attention away from Waneta and back to Joe, frown curving back into a brief smile. Then Joe is moving away to divert Waneta and Derek is continuing onward, away from an unwanted confrontation. Where Waneta was concerned, confrontation would be inevitable, and pointless. Instead he leads them out of the building and into the afternoon sun, sighing as the fresh air hits him, trying to shrug off the tension her appearance had instilled. Stiles is silent beside him as he walks away from the lodge and over towards the big fence running along the nearest enclosure, wading through the tourists to gaze at the sleeping pack through the metal grid. They stand there for a moment before Derek turns and continues down the line of the fence.

"I'll show you the other pack," Derek says, leading him through the "Staff Only" gate into a corridor that runs between two lines of fences. Stiles walks behind him as they continue all the way to the end of the fences where another gate sits. Derek keys in the code there too and they step out into seemingly open forest. The fence here is low. Probably enough to keep the wolves on the other side, but definitely not meant for tourists. They hike a ways into the wolf runs till they come to an area near a small rocky bluff hemmed in by a small creek that pools and wends its way around the rocks. The wolves like this spot, and Derek is not to be disappointed. They’re there, some lounging in the sun, others chasing each other through the trees.

Derek leans close so that he can speak quietly and know that he'll be heard. "This was the original site, where the feeding demonstrations would take place. Now we use it for the pack that's closest to being released back into the wild, keeping them separated from the tourists."

Stiles is already grinning and reaching for his camera bag, slipping it open and drawing out a longer lens. He makes the exchange quickly and with a great deal of focus, hurrying before they up and decide to disappear, which they very well might. He doesn't think they will. He comes here often enough to catch sight of them, and sometimes stays for hours. It only takes a moment for Stiles to finish and bring the camera up over the top of the fence to focus on the wolves. 

Derek watches, listening to the mechanical click of Stiles's camera firing rapidly as he angles his lens at the different wolves. Before long he finds himself telling Stiles about the pack, about the alphas, about how they'd been successful in convincing them to adopt a pair of orphaned pups and that they were due to be released in a few months. After just a little while, there's a sharp whistle, and the pack rallies almost immediately, running for the holding area. Stiles makes a sound of disappointment as they disappear from view.

"They'll be back," Derek assures him. "Just watch."

After a few minutes a pair of young people come out from the trees, carrying a few large buckets. They dump fish into a manufactured pool to one side of the creek and lay out other meat and bones as well as a few fresh small-animal corpses, ready for dinner. Stiles snaps a few photos of that too, then caps his camera, leaning against the fence.

"If you don't mind me asking… what was that all about back at the lodge?" Stiles asks, glancing over his shoulder at Derek.

"It's a long story," Derek says, frowning at the faint outline of the lodge in the distance. "Waneta and I don't get along. She doesn't think I belong here."

"But Joe thinks you do?" Stiles asks.

Derek nods slowly. "In his view, according to the old ways of the tribe, yes."

"I thought most tribes were pretty… I don't know, exclusive?" Stiles asks, running his fingers along the top of the metal fence.

Derek tilts his head. "Some would say that's actually more of a symptom of modern issues, though tribal cultures are diverse. In my case…" he frowns, mulling over his words. "The old ways are... old. But the traditions the tribe _has_ carried forward have been a part of my whole life. When I was young my family and I would attend celebrations. After my family was... gone, the big woman at the time met with the elders and they decided to take me in. Shared their heritage with me and helped me become an adult." 

He hesitates a moment, watching as the workers shake out their buckets and then disappear back into the tree line, then adds, "Not everyone appreciates my inclusion to the same degree. In some cases, like Waneta, they would prefer if I were gone altogether. Many of them, understandably, don't like the fact that all of the land is in my name."

"Wait, you own this land? Like, this entire forest?" Stiles asks, gesturing widely at everything around them. 

Derek shrugs in discomfort. "Sortof. It's complicated. But yes. The majority of the tribal land. The reserve. It's all under the stewardship of the Hales."

Stiles blows out his lips, brows raised as he leans back on his heels. "That seems…"

"Wildly inappropriate?" Derek finishes for him, tipping his head back and pursing his lips in frustrated agreement. "Yeah. But it could have been much worse. A lot of the decisions made about tribal land at that time were pretty bad. My great grandfather and the big man at the time were friends. They saw what was coming, and were able to work this arrangement out. It may not be right, but it was the best choice for the time I think. Many tribes today are fighting to buy back land that should belong to them while fending off casino developers at the same time. It doesn't always go well."

And that's a serious understatement. 

Stiles shakes his head slowly. "Wow. That's a lot to handle."

Derek snorts in agreement. Also an understatement.

Stiles tilts his head and makes a face before he continues speaking. "Look, I know I don't know what I'm talking about here, but… couldn't you just… _give_ it back?"

Derek sighs, shaking his head. "Believe me, I would if I could, but it's not that simple. If I relinquish control of the property, the terms of the grandfathered agreement mean the land wouldn't go back to the people. It would probably go through the state parks office which is so underfunded they wouldn't be able to defend against the casino lawyers. It might never make it back to this tribe if it goes that route."

"Shit," Stiles murmurs.

"Pretty much."

They stand there, staring over the fence at nothing, waiting for the wolves to return. The whole thing frustrates him to no end. It's part of why he avoids the town as much as possible. But he can't avoid the reserve, even if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to. Not when he gets to see the wolves, watch them be rehabilitated. 

"They really are amazing," Stiles says, tipping his chin at the clearing and similarly changing the subject.

Yeah, they are. And the perfection of the place goes a long way towards making all his uncertainties seem tiny. The air is soon filled with short yips and howls as the pack returns, searching out their food and bickering over who gets first bites.  
Stiles makes a sound of pleasure as he pops the lens cover again and resumes his photography. The dinner feeding provides another great opportunity to capture them in motion. Derek sketches fervently while Stiles snaps photos. He doesn't have a clear plan for his next collection, but their energy, their motion and vitality is speaking to him. That much has become clear over the past several days. He wants the new collection to be full of life, full of tension. He's been feeling it in a number of places. The running, the way Stiles never stops moving. The tussles over food and dominance, the chasing through the trees. It's exactly the sort of feeling he wants to capture.

Stiles laughs when a howl comes from near the lodge, the voices of children. What he doesn't know is that the wolves are just as happy to pick up the human's calls. A moment later the pack by the lodge picks up the call, and then the wolves near them lift their heads in response. 

Stiles snaps photos rapid-fire, then lifts his head just to watch and listen, a look of awe on his face as the howls circle back around and the humans back at the lodge pick it up again in force, sending it along the chain again. Stiles's throat tightens as he makes to join in, but then he stops abruptly, looking at Derek for confirmation as he has apparently remembered the last time they'd been around howling wolves. 

Derek nods, and is rewarded by a brilliant smile splitting across Stiles's features before he lifts his face and howls. The pack nearby calls back to him, and he howls again. After just a moment's hesitation, Derek tips his own head back, letting out a howl too, cutting loose all his tensions and letting the true nature of the place wash over him. When he lowers his face, Stiles is half-smiling at him, eyes bright and holding something unfathomable. He swallows and turns his camera back on the pack, trying to capture more of the iconic image of a howling wolf.

Eventually the calls dwindle and the pack resumes its play. They stay long enough that Stiles goes through two memory cards and the light of the declining sun catches their fur in vivid golden light. Magic hour, as movie directors call it, when the sun casts a unique glow over everything. For good reason. The way the light catches Stiles's eyes when he looks up from his camera… it's like there's fire in them. The evening winds just add to the sensation, curling around them, stoking the fire. 

It makes him ache to… do something. To…  
He finds his hand drifting up to brush over Stiles's shoulder, to curl over the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. Stiles glances at him, straightening slowly, leaning into the touch. After a moment he caps his lens, slotting the camera away into his bag without breaking his gaze.

The way Stiles is looking at him in the dwindling light… he can't remember why he isn't supposed to touch him. All he can think about is how much he wants to. How much he wants to have now, _here_ , all the unspoken closeness they'd been sharing under the plausible-deniability of the covers at night. 

He touches Stiles's cheek softly, watches thoughts flicker through his amber eyes. But whatever he's thinking he doesn't say it, nor does he pull away. He takes a slow breath, eyes fluttering closed when Derek's thumb rubs along his cheekbone. 

Slowly, carefully, he closes the distance, leaning in until his nose brushes against Stiles's, till he can feel his breath against his mouth. His lips touch Stiles's, just a faint brush against warm, smooth skin. He draws back, just a millimeter or two, just enough to break their kiss and tilt his head so that his nose brushes Stiles's cheek. Re-aligning his head he touches his lips to Stiles's again, a hair more firmly but just as briefly. Stiles's breath catches in his throat as Derek angles his head the other way, brushing their foreheads together before pressing a third, slow kiss to his mouth, one that lingers.

When he lifts his head eventually, Stiles's eyes ease open. The fiery light of the sun might be hidden behind the trees, but it hasn't gone from Stiles's eyes. If anything it burns brighter now. Derek steps away and Stiles swallows, clearing his throat as he turns and zips his camera bag closed properly. He pauses a moment, hand rubbing at the back of his head as he gnaws on his lip. He glances at Derek, but he doesn't speak, eyes soft and unfathomable. Derek just tips his head towards the path back and Stiles nods, falling into step beside him.

After a moment, Stiles's hand slips into his, twining their fingers together.  
He finds it comforting that Stiles doesn't know what to say about it either.


End file.
